


A Man Most Beloved

by round_robin



Series: An Exaltation of Wolves [5]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Anal Sex, Anxiety, Bathing/Washing, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Canon-typical bathing, Character Study, Domestic Fluff, Double Penetration, Emotional Intimacy, Exhibitionism, Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Fear, Fluff and Smut, Hot Springs & Onsen, Jealousy, Kaer Morhen, Kaer Morhen's Fanon Hot Springs (The Witcher), Love Bites, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Multi, Not Canon Compliant, Oral Sex, Papa Vesemir, Polyamory, Porn with Feelings, Power Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Protectiveness, Rimming, Scent Kink, Scent Marking, Scenting, Slow Build, Slut Jaskier | Dandelion, Snowballing, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Voyeurism, Witchersexual Jaskier | Dandelion, Wolf Pack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:00:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 63,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23851204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/round_robin/pseuds/round_robin
Summary: Still in full armor, it probably wasn't comfortable for Jaskier to lean against his chest, but Geralt couldn't seem to let go. He wrapped his arms tight around him, almost too tight, making sure the bard was safe. Something deep and poisonous swirled in his gut, it began the second Letho set his eyes on Jaskier and got worse when he mentioned winter. True, Letho sometimes wintered at Kaer Morhen. He hadn't been by in years, and he somehow heard about Jaskier and decided this winter was a good time for a visit?“Alright, then tell me who was that? Witcher, obviously. I've never seen him before.”“Letho of Gulet, School of the Viper.” Geralt held Jaskier tighter. “You haven't seen him before because Vipers are fucked up pieces of work, especially Letho. They're very secretive, they don't trust us, so we don't trust them.” He smoothed a hand through Jaskier's hair.
Relationships: Coën/Lambert, Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Eskel/Jaskier | Dandelion, Eskel/Lambert (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert, Jaskier/Others Mentioned
Series: An Exaltation of Wolves [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1687699
Comments: 1146
Kudos: 1936
Collections: Jaskier or Geralt/others (with or w/out eachother)





	1. Chapter 1 – Part 1 The Wolves of Winter

**Author's Note:**

> Here we are, the last part of this series. Getting so much feedback has been wonderful and made this really weird time feel a little less stressful and lonely. I tried to introduce a bit of plot this time in the form of: I saw Letho of Gulet and immediately didn't trust him, so now Jaskier doesn't trust him. This is just as soft as the rest of the series, but there are some sharp edges, everything turns out alright though. This fic will cover more time than we have so far, but most of the first half is one winter. it'll make sense as we go. More tags will be added as I update.
> 
> All mistakes are mine, please let me know if you find one and I'll take care of it. Please enjoy <3
> 
> I'm on tumblr as round--robin if anyone is interested in more of my nonsense.

“Toss a coin to your Witcher, oh valley of Plenty, o-oh!” Jaskier's beautiful voice sang. Geralt grit his teeth a little. He loved the singer, hated the song.

But the people in the tavern were clapping along and the bar maid just placed another pint in front of him. “From the landlord,” she said before sweeping away. Geralt had to admit, Jaskier's most annoying tune was a hit, which is probably why it was so annoying. For the first year after he wrote it, they couldn't walk into a single tavern without hearing “toss a coin!” bellowed by every drunk in town. As the years passed, it wasn't played as much, but Jaskier still got requests, and he wasn't one to refuse a request.

“Don't you hate that fucking song,” a familiar (very unwelcome) voice grumbled. Geralt's eyes snapped to the door to find Letho of Gulet striding towards him. He sat at Geralt's table without an invitation and swiped the fresh pint, taking a deep pull. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“What do you want?” While Geralt liked to keep an eye on Jaskier, he knew better than to look away from a Viper, it's how one ended up getting bit.

Letho shrugged, his shoulders wider than Geralt's, the bastard. “Can't greet a fellow in the field?”

“I only greet Wolves,” Geralt growled. He knew it wouldn't do anything, Witchers weren't intimidated by much, Letho of Gulet especially. “Other schools keep walking.”

Letho snorted and drank the rest of Geralt's pint. Though Jaskier was still singing, the bar maid did not appear with another. Normally, Geralt prided himself on being the most intimidating thing in the room, but with Jaskier's performance making the crowd tolerate the Witcher in their midst, he didn't want to cause a scene.

“I get it, you're too good for anyone else. You Wolves are all the same.”

Geralt shrugged. “What can I say, pack mentality.” Letho wasn't stupid, he didn't give up information unless he wanted to. He'd seen one of the others then, maybe recently, and the reception hadn't been civil...

The music started winding down and Geralt's eyes snapped back to Jaskier as he bowed to the assembled towns folk, jumping down from the bench he was dancing on. “Now good people, I must refresh myself! I'll be back for an evening show, don't you worry.” Completely oblivious to possible danger, Jaskier made his way back to Geralt, stupid grin across his face.

Geralt tried to signal with his eyes, but Jaskier lacked the intensive years of Witcher training and basic observation skills. “Wow, what a crowd! Who's your friend, Geralt?”

A slow smirk crawled across Letho's face and he turned, eyes raking over Jaskier head to toe. “So, this is the Whore of Kaer Morhen? I hoped we'd meet before winter.”

All the color drained from Jaskier's face, fingers tightening on his lute protectively. “I, uh—excuse... what?” Jaskier stammered.

Geralt stood up from his seat, glaring down at Letho. “Jaskier, go upstairs.” Jaskier didn't move and for the first time he could remember, Geralt smelled the smallest hint of fear swirling through the air around the bard. “Jaskier!” he barked, shocking him back to life. “Go upstairs.”

Jaskier started backing away slowly, he didn't take his eyes off Letho as he retreated. Under normal circumstances, Geralt would be pleased that Jaskier finally picked up good habits, no matter how small, but right now... fuck, his reaction just made everything so much worse. If Letho's dangerous aura was bad enough for Jaskier to twig to it... Geralt listened carefully as Jaskier closed the door of their room, bolting it behind him, then he heard the faint scrape of a chair across the floor. Barricading, another good habit he wished Jaskier didn't need.

He turned his attention back to Letho, who hadn't stopped fucking smirking. “Outside.”

Geralt didn't wait for Letho to get up, he grabbed the other Witcher by the shoulder and hauled him out, Letho laughing like a mad man. His attempt to throw Letho in the dirt was stymied a little when he shook out of Geralt's grip.

He stood up to his full height—much taller than Geralt, taller than most Witchers, wider too, built like a whole block of brick shit houses—and that sneering smirk returned. “What? Does it make you angry that I heard what goes on in your keep now? Very naughty of Vesemir, inviting humans.”

Geralt surged forward, getting right up in Letho's face, eyes thunderous. A lesser man would crumble under his gaze, a younger Witcher would back off, but Letho was too stubborn and too stupid to know when the winds were not in his favor. “Leave. Now. There are no more contracts in this town, not worth your while to stay here.”

“You don't deny it.” That self satisfied smirk widened a little, those flat reptile eyes pointed and nasty. “It's just that, you hear things on the road... Since I'm wintering at Kaer Morhen this year, I wanted to make sure I got the story straight. Is there a whole brothel, or is it just him?”

The list of Witchers who knew of Jaskier's... _familiarity_ was short. Lambert, Eskel, Geralt himself, and Vesemir. No one on that list would breathe a word of what happened at Kaer Morhen during winter, he was sure of it. But oh, Geralt burned to know more, to beat Letho bloody and force the information out of him. Because he wasn't just calling Jaskier a whore as a random insult, he'd never seen Jaskier before, there was no reason. No, he knew, and Geralt sure as fuck wanted to know how.

“Leave,” Geralt whispered. He shoved down the raw need to feel Letho's face turning to pulp under his fists and remembered Jaskier, probably pacing their room, trying to reign in his oh so numerous emotions. “I will not say it again.”

“Fine.” Letho gave a little mock salute and turned towards the stables to collect his stallion. “See you this winter!” he called over his shoulder.

“Fuck.” Geralt went back inside the tavern, pushing past the gossiping towns folk—

“Witchers fighting in town? That sounds dangerous...”

“I don't care how bad that noon wraith was, we don't need more of those freaks around here.”

Up the stairs, he went to open the door before remembering Jaskier bolted it. He took a slow breath to steady his nerves (no need to knock down the door when he merely meant to knock) and rapped the wood lightly. “Jaskier, it's me. Open up.”

The chair slid away and the bolt withdrew. One wide blue eye appeared before Jaskier threw the door fully open. Geralt was quick to get inside and close it behind him, pulling Jaskier into his arms. “Fuck, Geralt. What the hell was that about?”

“I don't know.” Still in full armor, it probably wasn't comfortable for Jaskier to lean against his chest, but Geralt couldn't seem to let go. He wrapped his arms tight around him, almost too tight, making sure the bard was safe. Something deep and poisonous swirled in his gut, it began the second Letho set his eyes on Jaskier and got worse when he mentioned winter. True, Letho sometimes wintered at Kaer Morhen. The School of the Viper had been destroyed, and to his knowledge, Letho was one of the few Vipers left alive, so he stayed with them on occasion. He hadn't been by in years, and he somehow heard about Jaskier and decided this winter was a good time for a visit?

“Alright, then tell me _who_ was that? Witcher, obviously. I've never seen him before.”

“Letho of Gulet, School of the Viper.” Geralt held Jaskier tighter. “You haven't seen him before because Vipers are fucked up pieces of work, especially Letho. They're very secretive, they don't trust us, so we don't trust them.” He smoothed a hand through Jaskier's hair, inhaling deeply, pleased to find the smell of fear had disappeared.

“Mmm, yes, not a charmer.” Though he held tight to Geralt, Jaskier seemed calmer. “What's with Witchers and calling me a whore? Firstly, it's a lazy insult, and secondly, it's inaccurate. Whores get paid.”

Geralt ignored Jaskier's attempts to gloss over his fear with humor, it was a poor tactic that never worked on him. He tipped Jaskier's chin up, bringing their eyes together. “You were afraid down there. You've never been afraid before, trust me, I'd know.” All the beasts and monsters that almost got a bite of Jaskier, the foolhardy bard had never smelled of fear, not even when he should. Yet an unknown Witcher suddenly brought it out in him?

Jaskier's mouth fell open, but no words came. His lips trembled a little and finally the tears started to spill. “His eyes... Geralt, his eyes were empty. He looked at me and he smiled, but it was so cold, there was... nothing.” He shook his head. “You lot, you hide your emotions well, but you all have a tell. You involve yourself in human business because you can't stand idly by; Lambert is an asshole because he loves too much and doesn't know how else to show it; and Eskel watches and studies before doing anything that might damage his heart.” He shook his head, tears rolling down his cheeks. “But there was nothing inside of him... he was so cold. I've never seen anything like it.”

“Like I said, fucked up piece of work.”

He smoothed a hand up and down Jaskier's back, waiting for the bard to push him away and tell him it was fine. It was not fine, Geralt smelled how _not_ fine things were. Jaskier liked to tell them they were all blocks of wood who couldn't read their own emotions for shit, but Geralt was very in tune with Jaskier, they all probably were. He covered his scent in soaps and oils, and pleasing though they were, he couldn't hide his arousal, his love, or his anxieties. And now, he couldn't hide his fear.

“Do you want me to call down for a bath? I'll wash your hair for a change, make you feel good,” Geralt said. Jaskier hummed, but didn't really respond.

After a few long silent moments, Jaskier whispered, “What aren't you telling me?” Geralt said nothing and Jaskier rolled his eyes, pulling away and pacing the room. “Asshole Witcher calls me names, that doesn't rate very high on the scale of shit that regularly threatens my life. What else is there?”

And just like that, Jaskier returned to form, always reading Geralt for any suppressed emotions or needs when he should be tending to his own feelings for a moment. “It doesn't matter.”

“It really does.” Jaskier moved in close, cupping Geralt's face, keeping his voice low. “You don't offer to wash my hair when we stay at an inn, it's too...” _intimate_ “exposed for you.” Geralt had tended to him a time or two since last winter, after Jaskier had a terrible show, or if his feet hurt from walking too much.

He stopped them by a stream and lovingly removed Jaskier's clothes with slow, careful fingers, kissing every inch of skin as he went. Then, he carried Jaskier into the water, letting him acclimate to the cold before dunking them both. Those rough fingers threaded through is hair like the finest comb and Jaskier moaned loud enough to echo through the trees, strong hands caressing down his neck, massaging his whole body from shoulders to toes. They hadn't had occasion for it much, but the few times Geralt washed his hair, Jaskier swore he'd died and gone to whatever pleasant afterlife contained eternal blow jobs and naked nymphs running around.

Geralt sighed and pressed his lips together, Jaskier recognized this as his “thinking” face, trying to figure out if it was worth enduring Jaskier's continued badgering—for he wouldn't give up, that was for damn certain—to talk in a more secluded place. He shook his head and resigned himself, bringing his hands up to encircle Jaskier's waist, pulling their bodies together, as close as possible.

“Letho sometimes winters at Kaer Morhen. The School of the Viper is gone, extinct, a lot of other schools are and most Witchers have a standing invitation to Kaer Morhen.”

“And he's coming this year.”

Geralt paused, which told more than a straight answer. “It seems so.”

Jaskier sighed, pressing his head into Geralt's chest. “Fine. I endured one winter of Lambert calling me a whore, I can endure another.” Geralt tensed under his fingers and Jaskier's head snapped up. “I have no intention of adding Letho to our _arrangement_ , no way.” A shiver ran down his spine, and not in a good way. “There's nothing inside of him, it's like there's no person in there. I could never...” Jaskier trailed off, squeezing his eyes shut.

He shook it off, and looked up at Geralt, eyes sparkling once again. “Besides, I don't think my ass could manage any more traffic. Three wolves are enough for me.”

Another deflection, but Geralt let this one go. If he let his mind linger on what exactly might go wrong with Letho in the keep with Jaskier, he'd drive himself mad. Pushing the thoughts away, Geralt slid a hand down to cup Jaskier's ass. “Good to know we satisfy,” he purred and pressed his face into Jaskier's neck, inhaling deeply.

Jaskier always worked up a sweat during a performance no matter how many oils and perfumes he tried to cover it with. Geralt loved that musky smell more than any other, and he quickly pulled Jaskier's collar open, sliding his nose into the notch at the base of that elegant neck. Jaskier's thick chest hair captured the smells so well, Geralt wanted more. With a low growl, he unbuttoned the pale blue doublet, quickly throwing it aside and starting on Jaskier's undershirt.

“Oh, fuck, Geralt, you know what that growl does to me.” Jaskier's knees started to buckle and Geralt tightened the arm around his hips, the other carding through that fragrant chest hair, getting Jaskier's smell all over his hand. Later, during the second appearance in the bar, Geralt could press that hand to his face and imagine all the things he planned to do once they retired for the night...

“Uh, I'm sweaty and filthy,” Jaskier moaned.

“I like when you're sweaty and filthy,” Geralt whispered into his neck.

It was all a play for Geralt's enjoyment. While Jaskier loved to pamper and dote on him, every once in a while, he knew the Witcher needed something more primal, a moment where he could thrust his face into Jaskier's underarm and cover himself in _odeur d'Jaskier_. It might not be his favorite sensual pastime, but if it pleased Geralt, it pleased him.

Geralt stripped Jaskier out of his clothes and pushed him onto the bed, legs dangling over the side. He went to move back but a firm hand around his calf stopped him. With a wolfish smile, Geralt knelt next to the bed, using his wide shoulders to push Jaskier's legs apart and settle between them. He leaned forward, nose finding its way to Jaskier's balls, breathing him in.

“Mmm,” Geralt hummed. He licked from Jaskier's balls up to his hip before nosing at his sac again, taking deep breaths, surrounding himself with his natural scent. “You smell amazing.” They bathed in a stream two days ago before they reached town, but with Jaskier on foot, sweat creased his most intimate areas, waiting for Geralt to seek it out.

“No accounting for taste I suppo-oh-se!” Geralt's tongue fluttered against his asshole and Jaskier's legs twitched, thighs tightening around Geralt's head.

“Mmm, yes.” Adjusting a little, Geralt maneuvered Jaskier's thighs onto his shoulders, giving him a new angle of access. He laid the flat of his tongue on Jaskier's perineum, licking up the seam of his balls.

“F-fuck!”

Another little adjustment and Geralt had one hand around Jaskier's cock, the other on his hip, and his tongue in his ass. Perfect. After the first stroke, Jaskier started panting. Swiping his thumb over the head, smearing the gathered wetness produced a low whine from Jaskier's chest. As Geralt pushed his tongue deeper, Jaskier's moans jumped an octave. The thighs gripping Geralt's head started to quiver and Jaskier's fingers twined through his hair.

“Fuck, Geralt, fuck, fuck—”

Jaskier arched like a bow, thrusting into Geralt's hand, his cock spilling across his stomach, a few drops sliding down his shaft to cover Geralt's fingers. He groaned at the thought of the bitter come coating his tongue, the last, most potent part of Jaskier's scent filling his head for the rest of the night.

When Jaskier collapsed back, Geralt removed his tongue with one last nip to the inside of his thigh. After an intense climax, Jaskier was somehow over sensitive and insensate at the same time—he didn't mind the love bite but almost shivered out of his skin when Geralt's tongue laved across his stomach, cleaning every drop of come he found.

Nothing left for him to lick, Geralt rested his head on Jaskier's stomach. The bard's fingers tangled in his hair, stroking across his scalp for a moment. Geralt suppressed the urge to purr and push into the touch. Not here, maybe when they made camp tomorrow...

“So,” Jaskier said once he regained his breath. “I'll go back down just as soon as I can feel my legs again.”

“Mmm,” Geralt hummed.

“After I'm done, we'll definitely have a bath. I feel more filthy than I did when you started.” Geralt just smirked.

After a few long moments, Jaskier managed to get himself together and trooped downstairs for the dinner crowd. Geralt joined him a little later, sitting at the corner table, one hand pressed against his face as he watched Jaskier twirl and dance. The rich musk of Jaskier's sweat clung to his fingers and it took most of his will power not to suck the scent off his own skin. Fuck, the things Jaskier did to him...

Watching him perform reminded Geralt of their last weeks at Kaer Morhen, Jaskier stretched out in the dining hall, on display for Eskel and Lambert. The bard was accustomed to an audience, and while an audience of wolves might scare some, Jaskier reveled in it. Geralt couldn't wait until next winter, how many performances Jaskier might give them, that surprisingly strong body bared for them all, love in his eyes and on his lips. Human strength rarely matched a Witcher, but sometimes, when Jaskier wrapped his legs around Geralt and squeezed, he managed to steal his breath for the moment. Geralt lived for those moments. And here was the specter of fucking Letho there to ruin it...

He shook his head and inhaled deeply, filling his mind with dreams of Jaskier and winter yet again. The bard himself did a spin and winked at Geralt, too fast for the rest of the bar to see.

Jaskier ended his song and took his bows, collecting the last of his coin. Geralt was already out of his seat and half way up the stairs, so when the door opened, he was ready to grab Jaskier and push him against it. He caught one slim wrist and pinned it to the door, allowing Jaskier a moment to set his lute aside before claiming the other wrist.

Their lips met in a burning kiss, Geralt licking into Jaskier's mouth and tasting the last sip of ale he had a few moments before to wet his tired throat. If Geralt could drink no other ale than that which came from Jaskier's tongue, he'd be a happy man.

He pulled back to let Jaskier take a breath and blue eyes fluttered open, his chest heaving. “Fuck. Did you miss me that much?”

“I always miss you when I can't touch you,” Geralt whispered. He rolled his hips and felt Jaskier's hard cock greet his.

“Oh, not that I'm complaining, but I was promised a bath.”

Geralt jerked his head to the tub already in their room, filled with water. “Had it done before I came down. No interruptions.” Geralt had every intention to bathe Jaskier, just as he promised, but first, he was going to take his time wringing the last bit of earthy, sweaty musk from Jaskier's skin. He laved his tongue up the side of his neck and under his ear. Geralt pulled back for a split second, long enough to spin Jaskier around and shove him against the door again, licking along his hair line at the sweat gathered there.

Jaskier shivered under the delicious assault. “F-fuck, at this rate, I'll need to do laundry as well. You're going to make me come in my smalls.”

“Mmm, not yet.” Geralt bit the nape of Jaskier's neck one more time before reaching around, unlacing his breeches and pulling them and his small clothes down to his knees where they met his boots. But Geralt planned for this. Kneeling behind Jaskier, he started removing his boots, sinking his teeth into one delicate ass cheek as he went.

“Oh, shit!” Jaskier bumped his head lightly against the door. His second boot thunked against the floor and his breeches and small clothes disappeared. The whole time, Geralt's teeth stayed firmly attached to the swell of his left cheek, nibbling just enough for Jaskier to really notice. “Geralt, I swear, if you do what I think you're going to do...”

Teeth released and Geralt licked across the love bite rising there, then swiped his tongue over the top of Jaskier's crack. “Fuck!” Jaskier arched into the door. “Not until I've had a bath!”

“You let me earlier.” Jaskier huffed and Geralt smirked. “Mmm, fine.” He licked the underside of his ass, where thigh met cheek, before standing up and helping Jaskier out of the rest of his clothes.

He didn't let Jaskier get far, wrapping an arm around him as they walked the few steps to the bath. “While I appreciate your foresight, the bath is cold now,” Jaskier said. “Any ideas about that?” A quick Igni with Geralt's free hand and the water was steaming hot again. “Perfect!”

Jaskier accepted the offered hand and climbed into the bath. He didn't need the help, Geralt just liked giving it. Geralt saw himself as surly and hard to love, so the fact that Jaskier took such good care of him in their quiet moments, to him, seemed like a great favor to repay, so he went above and beyond to see to Jaskier's every need, real or imagined. It was all bullshit—the idea of Geralt, or any of his wolves, being hard to love was absurd—and Jaskier would bathe them, cuddle them, and love them until the end of his days. The love he saw in them, emotions they refused to admit out loud, was more than enough to make it all worth it. To take such beaten creatures and make them _feel_ loved, it was all Jaskier had ever hoped for.

But Geralt needed to return the favor, right the scales, as it were, so Jaskier let himself be taken care of. It's not like Geralt got _nothing_ out of it.

As soon as Jaskier settled into the water, Geralt stripped his jerkin and stuck a hand into the bath, pulling Jaskier to him again and into another deep kiss. This was a fairly modest inn, and the tub was not big enough for two. They wouldn't be able to properly bathe together until they returned to Kaer Morhen for the winter and plunged into the hot spring, and Geralt desperately missed the slide of Jaskier's wet skin against his. Sometimes, on the road, if they found a calm stream, Geralt pulled him into the water and held him, both thinking of winter.

“I do... actually have to get... clean, at some point,” Jaskier mumbled against Geralt's lips.

With a frustrated growl, Geralt nipped at Jaskier's bottom lip and released him from the kiss. “Fine.” Before he went down to watch Jaskier perform, Geralt laid out his soap and a cloth so they were ready. Jaskier saw this and his heart melted at the consideration... Geralt wasn't stupid enough to tell him it was convenience, not consideration. The quicker he bathed, the less Geralt had to wait to get into bed.

Working up a lather, he scrubbed the cloth over Jaskier's back first. The smell of almonds bloomed in the air and Jaskier moaned. “I love this one.”

“I know.” The almond smell was a little strong for Geralt's sensitive nose, but last time he got ingredients, Jaskier didn't use as much almond oil and the almost-sweet scent wasn't as intense this batch. He'd never use it for himself, but it pleased Jaskier, so he used it to lavish attention on the man who gave so much of himself to others.

He swiped the cloth down Jaskier's spine to the top of his tail bone, fingers barely caressing his ass. Geralt sighed as he wiped the fragrant sweat away, but consoled himself that it would soon return, even Jaskier couldn't stay clean on the road.

Dragging the soapy cloth across his chest and down his arms, Geralt caught a glimpse of Jaskier's eyes. Crystal blue and beautiful, and focused solely on him. Even when he was doing the pampering, Jaskier made him feel like the only person in the world. Geralt leaned in to snatch another kiss.

This time, Jaskier leaned in, wrapping one hand around the base of Geralt's neck and threading his fingers through his hair. Hot breath blew across Geralt's lips before Jaskier's sweet tongue swept into his mouth, searching out the last tastes of ale. He grabbed Geralt's hand and pulled it into the bath, guiding it between his legs to Jaskier's very hard cock. “We need to be done soon,” Jaskier whispered. “I don't think my heart can take any more waiting.”

Geralt growled in response and quickly washed the rest of the soap from Jaskier's body. He didn't bother waiting for Jaskier to stand, Geralt just lifted him out of the tub and over to the bed. “Oh, I'll get the sheets all wet...” Jaskier whined, but his body arched up, pressing closer, trying to touch as much as possible.

Geralt also had the foresight to place a bottle of their oil next to the bed. After stripping out of his breeches, it was the work of a few seconds to open it and push two slick fingers inside his very wet bard. His chest jerked, hand fluttering down to wrap around his cock, toes curling into shitty bed sheets with snags and runs, not suitable for showcasing how fucking beautiful Jaskier was when he was about to be fucked.

“This bed isn't good enough for you,” Geralt said, thrusting his fingers a hair too hard, but just hard enough for Jaskier's moans to jump an octave in pleasure. “One day, I'll buy blue silk for our winter bed, I'll see your ass rest in comfort while I plow it night after night.”

“Yes! Yes, fuck yes.” Sweet goddess, Geralt hadn't even started fucking him and Jaskier was a mess. This was more than he ever got from Geralt when they stayed at an inn, he was so closed off, so worried they might be overheard. Jaskier understood, it took years to pry Geralt out of his shell, he wasn't about to ask for more than he was willing to give. And yet, here he was, whispering filthy beautiful words he'd barely let himself think before. “You better fuck me soon,” Jaskier panted. “At this rate, I'm not going to last long.”

Geralt dripped a stripe of oil down his cock and gave it a few quick strokes before gripping behind the head and lining up with Jaskier's asshole. He wanted to go slow, tease a little and make a show of it, but Jaskier hooked his ankles behind Geralt's thighs, pulling him in. They both gasped as he bottomed out and Geralt took a moment to rethink his plans. Alright, the bard wanted to get fucked? That could be arranged.

The first few thrusts came quick and without mercy, making Jaskier's toes curl and his hands claw at Geralt's back. Surprisingly strong arms squeezed tight to him, spurring Geralt on. Working one hand between Jaskier and the bed, Geralt wrapped his fingers around the back of Jaskier's neck, pulling him in close, their lips a breath away. “You are so beautiful, your eyes, your neck... I want to devour you,” Geralt whispered, his hips snapping forward with each word.

Jaskier tried to close the small space for a kiss but Geralt dodged, shaking his head. “I want to look into your eyes while I fuck you, think of all the things we're going to do this winter.” His voice dropped, almost too soft for Jaskier to hear, in his overstimulated state, with Geralt's cock moving inside him, Jaskier strained his ears to hear the rarely gifted words. “Will you let us watch you again? All of us? You're too beautiful to keep to myself, and the way Lambert looks at you... it makes me want you more.”

Geralt didn't speak the names of the others in bed—a real bed, that is—nor in a town, nor anywhere close to human civilization. What happened between Jaskier and his wolves was no one's business, and Geralt jealously guarded that secret. Hearing it whispered to him in the heat of their fucking, the taboo of the inn walls surrounding them, and Jaskier came. With a few jerky pulls on his cock, he bit into Geralt's shoulder to stifle his moans.

While Geralt planned to pull out and spurt across Jaskier's chest, the sudden bite took him by surprise. He bit down on Jaskier's neck in turn and came just as aftershocks spiked through the bard's exhausted body.

The fact that Geralt managed to collapse next to Jaskier instead of on top of him was a small miracle. His heart beat slowed to normal long before Jaskier's did, and Geralt was lucid enough to appreciate the glassy-eyed bliss across Jaskier's face. He licked the spend off Jaskier's stomach (earning a feeble moan) and sat up.

A few long moments passed and Jaskier was still well out of it. Geralt nudged him. “Come on, let's clean up before we sleep. Or has my cock finally ruined you?”

A flicker of humor brought Jaskier back to the here and now. “No, it was your words. Such beautiful words, I wish I heard them more.”

“Mmm, this winter.” He leaned down again, sucking on Jaskier's earlobe before whispering, “We will worship you, if you let us.”

A shiver ran down Jaskier's spine. “Oh, I absolutely will.”

Limbs heavy and sleepy, they cleaned up and fell back into bed. Jaskier curled into Geralt's arms and laid his ear over that slow heart. “An extra guest in the castle won't be so bad,” Jaskier said as his finger drew absent patterns on Geralt's chest. “We'll just have to steer clear of the more public places where you lot like to fuck me. The dining hall is out this year. It'll be fine.”

“Mmm.”

It didn't take long for Jaskier to drop off to sleep, but Geralt stayed awake longer. He hoped Letho was just fucking with him. A Viper in Kaer Morhen with Jaskier... No, he wouldn't let himself think that way. Whenever happened this winter, Geralt and the others would keep Jaskier safe. They'd always keep Jaskier safe.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like the year before, the moderately challenging path grew difficult quick, nothing Jaskier couldn't handle. The next day would be worse, when the cold finally settled in. Jaskier said nothing when Geralt sped their pace, determined to get to the keep as fast as possible. A harder journey, yet less time in the ice and cold.
> 
> By the end of the third day, Jaskier started shivering constantly. Geralt held him close at night, sharing his excessive body heat. “If we move fast tomorrow, we can make it by nightfall.”
> 
> Jaskier nodded. “We can make it.” He didn't know what state he'd be in when they arrived, but that was a question for later. Jaskier at least hoped to stay conscious this time. He wanted to remember Kaer Morhen's gates when he walked through them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been playing the Witcher games and reading the books (quarantine, man, lots of time...) so there will be a lot more lore in this fic, mostly by way of the other schools and what makes them unique. Obviously, this isn't canon compliant because i actually want them to be happy.
> 
> All mistakes are mine, let me know if you find one and I'll take care of it. Enjoy :)

In the remaining month before their journey to Kaer Morhen, Jaskier visited the apothecary in every town, village, hamlet, or settlement, they came across. His ingredient bag (almost too heavy for him to lug around) was about to burst at the seams.

Geralt sighed as he watched Jaskier try to shove another jar—this one filled with yet more rose oil—into his overstuffed bag. “Do you not have enough ingredients yet?”

Jaskier sniffed and ignored him, rearranging a few items before everything packed away nicely. “It's not all for winter. Well, most of it is, but some is an investment, of sorts. We're traipsing through Redania, right? Whenever I cross Redania, they pick me clean of lavender, rose, jasmine—anything floral. I sell a good amount as we go, and we'll have a tidy bag of gold to purchase supplies.”

“Hmm.” It was Geralt's turn to bring supplies, and a cart would help, he'd planned to use the last of his funds to buy one in a few weeks' time. “It couldn't hurt.”

“That's the spirit!” Jaskier checked over his bag again, making sure the weak seam wasn't actually about to split. “Besides, I have the three of you _all_ winter, if we run out of oil, I don't know which of us will be more upset.”

The weeks went by happily—for Jaskier—as they made their way towards Kaer Morhen. He was right about one thing, everywhere they went, the Lord, or the mayor's daughter, paid a pretty penny for Jaskier's soaps and balms, tittering over the “fine” scents. You'd think they were fucking magic the way women swooned at the smallest hint of rose and lily, honeysuckle embellished with real coconut oil, gold coins pouring from their purses into Jaskier's. At least they could afford a cart now, no question of that. Hell, Geralt might be able to get a donkey to pull it and spare poor Roach.

When Geralt broached the topic of supplies—for living, not just for fucking—Jaskier agreed wholeheartedly. “Yes, a cart sounds perfect. And a donkey, of course, Roach is too refined to be a pack animal.”

“Roach is a war horse. Nothing refined about that.”

Jaskier punched him on the arm, more of a tap than a punch. “She's a beautiful mare and you'll treat her with respect, not make her lug around a cart.”

Geralt chuckled and patted the side of Roach's neck. “Should I leave you two alone?”

As they planned and prepared, and got closer to Kaer Morhen, the pit in Geralt's stomach got deeper. Letho's promise to see them this winter still rang in his ears, and the more excited Jaskier got about spending a relaxing winter getting fucked left, right and center, the more Geralt worried Letho was going to ruin it.

The idea of the brutal, over-large Viper in the hot spring while they all tried to relax was... unappealing. Letho didn't have an off switch, Geralt had never seen him drop his guard for even a moment, which was the very essence of winter for the rest of them. Jaskier wanted to pamper and treat his wolves, but they'd all be too worried of Letho sinking his teeth into the bard to fully relax... then Jaskier would think they needed more attention to soothe them and he'd try harder, making them more on guard... It was a circle Geralt wanted to avoid, as it only produced annoyance for them and frustration for Jaskier that he couldn't fix everything. By the time they reached the beginning of the trail to Kaer Morhen, Geralt hadn't thought of a solution.

But now he had to worry about keeping Jaskier safe on said trail.

They made camp for the night and Geralt was firm about starting at first light. “No waiting to finish breakfast, no morning sex, we wake and we go,” he said.

“Mmm, yes, I know.” Jaskier busied himself with Roach and their new donkey, scratching the pack animal between its fuzzy ears. “And when we get to the top, you'll have a nice warm stable to live in, with pretty Roach, and a few more horses. And there were chickens last year! Won't that be fun?” he cooed to the donkey. Geralt didn't have the heart to tell him that, come deep winter, if Vesemir didn't have use for the donkey, he'd just set it free in the snowy valley, leaving its chances to nature.

“Don't worry, I won't get attached,” he said, reading Geralt's mind. “I haven't even named him. Though I'm definitely not looking forward to donkey stew.” Jaskier rubbed the donkey's nose and retreated to the fire, settling in against Geralt's side.

“No donkey stew, Vesemir will never be that desperate.” He'd send them out to hunt in a blizzard before he'd slaughter a donkey. “When Vesemir first started out on The Path, his horse got taken by a forktail in his first year. He bought a donkey to carry his gear until he could afford a new horse and got attached to it, had a soft spot for them ever since.” Pack animals in general, now he thought about it. Vesemir did have a favorite goat at one point...

Jaskier smiled and leaned into Geralt, nuzzling under his chin. “I must get more stories out of Vesemir. Seems like an unexplored gold mine.”

After they ate the last of their fresh food (venison left over from yesterday, not as good as a fresh kill, but definitely better than stale trail rations and jerky) Jaskier once again curled in Geralt's lap. One hand wrapped around the back of Geralt's neck while the other trailed down his chest, tickling and touching in all the right ways.

“So,” Jaskier whispered, his lips right against Geralt's ear. “Last chance to have me to yourself before we see the others.” Jaskier loved them all, deeply, epicly, these few seasons away made his heart ache for his pack to be complete once again. With their winter den so close, just a few days' climb away, excitement thrummed through him, Jaskier couldn't wait to feel Lambert quiver under his touch, or watch Eskel and Geralt take each other apart, but a piece of his heart would always belong to Geralt alone, the first wolf he ever loved. Their time together on The Path was special and in the lazy tranquility of winter, Jaskier did miss their adventures.

Geralt chuckled, a warm sound deep in his chest, and ran his fingers from Jaskier's jaw, down his neck and lower still, feeling the thump of his heart speeding up in anticipation. “You make a good point. I don't want to take too much out of you, though, we have an early morning tomorrow.”

Jaskier arched into the touch, leaning a little too far back, but Geralt held him steady, there were no safer arms in this sphere or the next. “You never take too much. All I have is yours.”

Geralt bit his lip. “Fuck, Jaskier, when you say—” No, words could not describe the things Jaskier made him _feel_ , the words probably existed but Geralt wasn't good with words. He tried to show how much Jaskier truly meant to him through deed instead, hoping it was enough.

With one hand supporting Jaskier's back, Geralt used the other to unlace his breeches. Jaskier moved to help undress them both but a quick shake of Geralt's head stopped him. “Let me touch you,” he said, not a whisper like back in the tavern, but still quiet, for Jaskier's ears alone. He opened Jaskier's breeches and pushed down his small clothes just enough to expose his cock. He licked his palm, already hungry for the sight of Jaskier in bliss.

Wrapping a hand around the length of it, Geralt started off slow, staring into Jaskier's eyes as he stroked. “You never saw it, but last winter, Lambert and I had a few fights over you. He wanted you in his bed for the night and didn't like being reminded that I found you first. You gave yourself to me before you knew the others existed, the first Witcher you saw, and you were enamored. I thought that would get you killed, but I've never been so pleased to be wrong.

“You've surrounded yourself with us, an iron wall that will not buckle. Whatever petty squabbles happen between my brothers and I, we all agree on you, that we want to keep you safe, secure, and adored. We will worship you this winter, make no mistake, but I want you to remember I was your first disciple. I was the first who came to your altar, screaming out for love that I did not know I needed.” Jaskier gasped and clawed at Geralt's back, holding tighter.

Eyes of molten gold burned into him and Jaskier couldn't breathe. He gulped lungfuls of air, felt his heart beating, chest rising. But those eyes... the eyes of the gods held him still, pinned under the staggering amount of love that poured off Geralt. His hips bucked and Geralt stroked faster, thumb sliding across his slit, tugging at his foreskin—to be the focus of such concentrated intensity was almost too much for Jaskier, like being buffeted by wave after wave, unable to swim to shore. Yet these waves were warm and Jaskier never wanted to escape this storm.

Careful teeth bit down on his earlobe just as Geralt tightened his grip and Jaskier's control shattered. Tremors shook him as he came into Geralt's hand, the thought of what came next sending another white hot burst of pleasure down his spine.

He slumped back into Geralt's lap and watched that wicked tongue lap his come away, circling his knuckles to search out every last drop. Jaskier groaned again, signaling his complete and utter defeat.

“Why do you do that?” he asked as Geralt moved them over to the bed roll, pulling Jaskier out of his boots before they settled in for the night. “Don't get me wrong, it's very stimulating, and I do appreciate your thoroughness, I just can't figure out why.” Sleepy eyes followed Geralt as he removed his own boots and tunic. “You make me feel like I have honey coming out of my cock.”

Geralt smirked and climbed into the bedroll, pulling Jaskier to his chest. “Eskel and I started fucking a few years before we earned our medallions. With the extra mutagens and training they gave me, sometimes, we wouldn't see each other for days, maybe weeks. I discovered that, when I licked the come off Eskel's skin, the smell of him stayed with me for days. If I breathed deeply, I tasted him like he was right there. It made things... not easier, but better.” He pushed his nose against Jaskier's neck, breathing deep. “I don't do it for everyone, only those I want to feel after they've left my side.”

Tears prickled at the back of Jaskier's eyes. They weren't even _on_ the mountain yet and Geralt already started with the heartbreaking revelations from his past. He pushed back into Geralt's chest, getting as close as possible. “Remind me to kiss Eskel for making you feel less alone.”

Geralt hummed against his skin. “Sleep now, early morning.”

~

And what an early morning it was. The horizon was barely glowing when Geralt roused Jaskier from sleep. Shoving some jerky in his mouth, he got dressed and hitched the donkey to the cart as Geralt packed up camp. He didn't know how they'd get the thing up the path, but Geralt didn't seem worried, if there was a shorter short cut none of them mentioned, Jaskier might just have to give a little payback this winter...

Like the year before, the moderately challenging path grew difficult quick, nothing Jaskier couldn't handle. The next day would be worse, when the cold finally settled in. He had Lambert's old gambeson to wear, and some good gloves. With the cart, Geralt had to stay at the head of their little procession, and Jaskier at the rear. Geralt looked back, checking in with him every few miles. When the snow started to pick up, he checked more frequently, and Jaskier was always there, urging the donkey along the thin, barely visible trail. Jaskier said nothing when Geralt sped their pace, determined to get to the keep as fast as possible. A harder journey, yet less time in the ice and cold.

By the end of the third day, Jaskier started shivering constantly. Geralt held him close at night, sharing his excessive body heat. “If we move fast tomorrow, we can make it by nightfall.”

Jaskier nodded. “We can make it.” He didn't know what state he'd be in when they arrived, but that was a question for later. Jaskier at least hoped to stay conscious this time. He wanted to remember Kaer Morhen's gates when he walked through them.

The next day, shortly after noon (though one could never be sure this high up in the mountains, the snow obscured the sun's position) Geralt slammed to a stop at the head of their convoy. Jaskier barely managed to hold the donkey and cast an eye over the cart to make sure nothing broke in the sudden stop.

The wind carried Geralt's voice back to Jaskier. “I don't fucking believe it.”

“What?” he shouted back. “What's happening?”

Geralt turned around, a bright smile lighting his face. He pointed around the corner just ahead of him. “This trail is usually closed with snow by now. It'll save us four hours.”

“Thank fuck.” They started moving again, turning down the smaller, almost invisible trail. Jaskier thanked the gods for Geralt's keen eyes, he never would've noticed the gap in the rocks.

While it was a tight squeeze for the cart, they made it through, the sun still hanging in the sky when Kaer Morhen came into view. Geralt picked up the pace, Jaskier right behind him. He insisted on taking the cart across the rickety bridge and told Jaskier to take Roach. Jaskier did it all without question, this was Geralt's mountain, he knew best, and they were both desperate to reach the keep.

The wind died down the second they walked through the gates. In the fading light of evening, Jaskier saw the familiar walls, the training equipment, the stables and the greenhouse. He took a deep breath, inhaling the mountain air and savoring it. “It's good to be back,” he said, mostly to himself.

Geralt grunted and nodded in agreement, which was as excited as he got. He turned them towards the small stable. “Can you put away Roach and the donkey? I have to tell Vesemir about the cart.”

Jaskier pulled both animals into the stable and started brushing them down, checking their food for the night. As he worked, a creeping heaviness filled his limbs, his head going fuzzy. Geralt entered the stables and Jaskier stumbled over to him. Strong arms caught him and a familiar face frowned down at him.

“I thought this might happen. We pushed too hard, ignored your normal need for rest and now your body is trying to _make_ you rest. Let's get inside.”

“Damn,” Jaskeir sighed. He let Geralt loop his arm around his hips, mostly dragging him to the front doors. “I'd hoped to stay awake this time. I was so looking forward to seeing... Lambert!”

The dark haired Witcher, already free of his armor and wearing a decadently open linen shirt, ran down the hall to meet them. While he was pretty sure he was about to pass out, Jaskier mustered enough strength to open his arms. Lambert slid into them like it had been minutes rather than months. He pulled Jaskier from Geralt's side and lifted him, burying his face into Jaskier's neck.

Gentle teeth rested against his skin and Jaskier smiled. Later, after he'd rested and they were feeling up to it, he'd insist Lambert sink those teeth into him deep enough to bruise, to mark him with their love the way he covered them in his scents. “I missed you too,” Jaskier said. A deep purr rumbled from Lambert's chest.

Geralt didn't want to ruin the mood, but... “Is Letho here yet?” Lambert lifted his face from Jaskier's neck. His mouth opened, but no words came out, the color draining from his skin.

Anger boiled in Geralt's stomach. Lambert didn't ask “what are you talking about?” he didn't say “Letho hasn't been in years, why do you ask?” he looked at Geralt like a fucking deer caught in the road, spelling out everything he needed to know.

“What the fuck did you do?” Geralt crowded Lambert against the wall, Jaskier still in his arms.

“I didn't do anything!” Lambert spat back. He turned, putting himself between Jaskier and the other Witcher, as if Geralt might hurt him. That was a conversation for another time, for now, Geralt was trying to find a reason not to skin Lambert alive.

“Then how did Letho fucking know about—”

“Hey!” Eskel shouted down the corridor, jogging towards them. He was free of armor as well, his bright red tunic a splash of color against the gray walls, it appeared Geralt and Jaskier were the late ones this season. “Not in the front hall, it's freezing here.” He spared a glance to Jaskier, eyes softening. “Is he alright?”

“He's exhausted. I need to get him in bed.” Sharp eyes glared at Lambert. “Come with me, we'll talk upstairs.”

Jaskier barely felt the ground under his feet as Lambert mostly carried him up the stairs. While he expected friendly chatter, the three Witchers were deadly silent. There was an argument, he was sure, but Jaskier's mind was so hazy, he didn't entirely know what was happening or where they were until Lambert lowered him into a soft bed.

Lambert went to strip Jaskier out of his clothes when Geralt caught his wrist, pulling him away from the bed and shoving him towards the fireplace. “Talk. How the fuck does Letho know about Jaskier?”

“What happened?” Eskel asked.

“We met Letho on the road two months ago,” Geralt said, eyes still glaring daggers at Lambert. “He called Jaskier the whore of Kaer Morhen.” A disgusted snarl broke from Eskel's mouth. “Then he said he'd see us in winter.” He took a step closer to Lambert, pinning him against the masonry. “I barely mentioned Letho and you look guiltier than a treasurer with his hand in the til. What the fuck happened?”

“I didn't tell him anything! I'm not stupid enough to speak of Jaskier to fucking Letho. You think I'd tell anyone our business?” Lambert tried to keep Geralt in his sights, it was dangerous to look away from a wolf as it snapped for your throat, but his eyes drifted over to Jaskier, mostly asleep on the bed. Even with their brief visit earlier this year, his heart ached for the bard's touch, skin growing colder by the day. All he wanted was to feel those soft hands stroking his head, lips whispering words of love Lambert could never say, but most definitely returned. And now here Jaskier was, mere feet away, and he still couldn't touch.

“After I parted from you, Letho found me on the road. He saw us. Saw me...” His words faltered for a second, and Geralt and Eskel heard his heart speed up. “Kneeling. He wanted to know what the fuck had happened. I didn't tell him shit so he drew his own conclusions...” Lambert kneeling with an unknown human, Geralt nearby probably smiling like an idiot, all of them reeking of sex, it wasn't a hard tale to piece together.

Geralt ground his teeth, a muscle in his jaw jumping. “Fuck.” Letho accosting them on the road seemed to be a theme here, which meant it wasn't Lambert's fault. “Fuck.” He hung his head and pressed into Lambert, hands soft this time with no intent to beat the truth out of him. “I shouldn't have yelled. Seeing Letho, the way he looked at Jaskier, it made me—”

Eskel laid a hand on Geralt's shoulder as Lambert leaned into him, both comforting him through the rage swirling inside. Maybe they had learned something from Jaskier...

“Jaskier was afraid of Letho,” Geralt whispered. “I'd never smelled fear on him before that day. I'm not really sure what set it off, he said...” Geralt cast his mind back to that day, the way Jaskier's lips trembled, the fear pouring off of him... he never wanted to see that again and now he might be facing an entire winter of it. “He said Letho was empty, there was nothing inside of him.” Geralt hadn't started to try and understand what that meant, nothing good, he imagined...

“If Letho comes this winter, we'll handle it,” Eskel said. “He won't lay a hand on Jaskier.”

“No fucking way,” Lambert growled.

“Hey...” A soft voice drifted over to them and they broke apart, six golden eyes focusing on the bed. “Are you having a cuddle without me?” Barely awake, one of Jaskier's arms flopped out as if to touch them. Lambert was right there, crawling in bed with him and pulling Jaskier tight to his chest. Geralt and Eskel joined them, lingering just far enough away to give Lambert space, he needed Jaskier's touch more than them and even half asleep, Jaskier had already begun stroking his hair, whispering sweet nothings into his ear.

“What's wrong?” The question was for all of them, but the rattling breath from Lambert broke Jaskier's heart.

“Letho might be coming this year. Geralt told us what happened. He saw me—us—on the road. It's all my fault—”

“Shh, shh, shush.” Jaskier petted Lambert's hair some more, dragging his fingers all the way down his neck and back, soothing him before he got too worked up. “It's not your fault, don't say that.” He managed to open his eyes only to find gold staring back at him. “I forgot about Letho.”

“I didn't,” Geralt growled.

“We won't let him touch you,” Eskel said. “You don't have to be afraid.”

“Who would be afraid with this many strapping Witchers offering to protect my honor?” No one laughed and Jaskier sighed. “Can we talk in the morning?” The instinct to make sure Lambert, Eskel and Geralt were happy and safe warred with the sheer exhaustion pulling Jaskier down into sleep. “I feel this is a better conversation when well rested.”

Geralt nodded. “Of course.”

For the first time, Lambert took his eyes off Jaskier and looked at Geralt, beseeching. “If you think I'm leaving this room tonight, you're crazy.”

Geralt expected as much. “Fine. My bed's the only one big enough.” He didn't have to ask if Eskel was staying, of course he was. “Get him out of his clothes, I'll see if Vesemir won't mind us having dinner up here tonight.”

The three wolves moved around him and Jaskier lapsed back into a pleasant sleep. Some part of his mind knew tomorrow wouldn't be a good day, and not just for the chores and hard work of winter. There was something else, something bigger, but he couldn't remember it at the moment. He fell asleep again with Lambert's arms around him.

~

Jaskier woke before dawn with sweat rolling down his neck. Early winter at Kaer Morhen, that hardly happened outside the hot spring. He went to take off his long underwear only to find he was naked, and pressed against Lambert, with Geralt on the other side, Eskel behind him.

Well, that explained that.

He tried his best to wiggle free and managed to move Lambert, offering him an escape from the sheets and he managed to stumble into the cold air of the room. The fire in the hearth had long died, nothing but softly glowing embers, and the sweat soon froze on his skin. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to leave his pile of Witchers.

He recalled last night's conversation: the shouting, Geralt and Lambert almost tearing at each other's throats. Jaskier cast a glance back at the bed where they were all piled together, Lambert's face buried in Geralt's chest, Eskel spooned up behind him. The argument was clearly over, a small relief, he hated to start out winter on a bad note. Bad note...

Letho.

Letho was supposed to come this year. Those cold eyes Jaskier felt deep in his soul, staring at him, trying to find a weakness—not out of jealousy, like Lambert and Eskel had done, but for fun—Letho planned to find his amusement this winter in terrorizing Jaskier, he just knew it.

Their bags magically made their way up to the room and Jaskier got dressed in his nice winter clothing, wrapping Lambert's old gambeson around him for the final layer and burying his nose in the soft, padded fabric. Lambert's smell had long faded, but he planned to store it in the young Witcher's bed for a few weeks to get the smell back.

Checking one last time to make sure the wolves were still asleep, Jaskier slipped out the door and made his way down the stairs. The castle was a little unfamiliar in the dark and Jaskier trailed his hand along the wall, letting the old stones guide him down. The first light that met his eyes came from the dining hall, from the large cooking fire that never quite went out. Through the doors, Jaskier saw Vesemir sitting by himself over a plate of fresh toast, a toasting fork held over the fire.

“Up early, little lark?” Vesemir didn't look at him, but his attention didn't surprise Jaskier. Witchers had more senses that most, and the old Witcher probably had a few more.

“Yes. I fell asleep as soon as we arrived, left me well rested.” He sat down on the bench across from the fire and Vesemir slid the plate of toast towards him. He took a piece and munched quietly for a moment. “Did you hear anything last night? The shouting, I mean.”

Vesemir smirked a little. “I try not to listen too hard when you're here with them, but yes, I heard the argument.” His smile faded and he started into the fire, paying close attention to the bread slowly browning on the end of the toasting fork. “If I knew Letho made threats against you, I would've told him to stay out of my keep. At this rate it's too late, he'll be here soon, saw him on the mountain this morning.” He sighed deeply. “If the others don't beat him to death in the first few weeks, the valley will be impassable and he'll have to stay.”

Jaskier suppressed a chuckle. “They weren't threats, exactly. Unless Geralt told you something he hasn't told me. Letho just called me a whore, which I am most accustomed to.”

“And yet, you're afraid of him.”

A shiver ran through Jaskier and he moved closer to the fire. Vesemir lifted one arm and laid it behind him on the table top, not touching, simply resting, reminding Jaskier there was one more wolf who cared about his well being. “He looked at me and his eyes were cold. I—I can't describe it any better than that. Everyone—humans, Witchers, elves, dwarves—there is a light in their eyes. At Oxenfurt, I was trained to find that light, to sing to it, speak to it, connect to it, that's what I do.” He shook his head. “In all my days, I have never seen someone so dark and cold inside. I don't like it and I don't trust it.”

Vesemir didn't answer for a long moment, and out of the corner of his eye, Jaskier saw him glance down at his medallion. He chuckled and shook his head. “It's not magic, I'm not part elf, and I don't read souls, or whatever else you might be thinking. I am a performer.” He gave a little flourish with his hand before grabbing another piece of toast. “It's just crowd work, reading body language. We're taught very well at Oxenfurt, it's why I don't play cards here, Eskel wouldn't have any clothes left. If you can't read a room, you can't survive as a traveling bard.”

“And you can't read Letho?”

Jaskier's face went blank and Vesemir moved closer to him. He didn't like the pallor that came over the bard when he thought about Letho. “I don't get _anything_ from him. No body heat, no physical presence, no energy—not magic, just stage craft, all audiences have energy—it's like he's not there and I don't know why.”

“School of the Viper produced complex creatures, Letho especially.” Vesemir paused for a moment, considering. “What has Geralt told you about him?”

“Nothing. I think he hoped I'd forget about him.”

“Well, that is Geralt's story to tell, but I will say there is bad blood there, rivers of it. Their issues should not be yours, Geralt will not involve you in them.”

“And if Letho does?” Jaskier didn't know Letho from a hole in the ground, but his limited experience told him Letho wasn't the type to care who he dragged into his wake of destruction.

Vesemir straightened up, his arm brushing Jaskier's back. “If he attempts to harm you in my keep, he will find his skin hanging from its walls.”

Jaskier smiled despite himself. “You're all so keen to defend my honor. Maybe I should get some for you to protect.”

“You protect my sons. I don't need any other reason to protect you.”

No Witcher was fond of open displays of affection, so Jaskier just nodded, allowing the room to lapse back into comfortable silence. Vesemir finished toasting the piece of bread and nodded for Jaskier to hand him another. The fire snapped and popped as they sat, enjoying the quiet early morning company.

The sun had barely started to rise and echoing footfalls stomped down the stairs. “Vesemir!” Geralt shouted. “Jaskier's go—” Geralt entered the dining hall and slid to a stop, his feet and chest bare. Vesemir arched an eyebrow at the dramatic entrance and Geralt just sighed. He should have known Jaskier ended up down here with Vesemir. He turned and ran back up the stairs. “Eskel! Lambert! I found him! He's sitting with Vesemir!”

Vesemir turned back to the fire and shook his head. “They're stupid boys, but I'm glad they have your love.”

Three sets of heavy feet rumbled into the dining hall, each mostly dressed with Lambert trailing at the back still lacing his breeches. He smiled when he saw Jaskier in his gambeson, but said nothing. They all sat down and Vesemir served the rest of the breakfast, the toast only a small portion of it.

Jaskier tended to sleep a little later than the others, so he'd never endured the sight of four Witchers inhaling five dozen hard boiled eggs, and two pounds of bread. It was a sight to behold... and definitely one he never wanted to behold again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lambert bit down on Jaskier's neck and inhaled deep. “You smell like us now.”
> 
> Oh, Jaskier was not prepared for the feelings that idea provoked. The thought that he—a humble bard with no supernatural abilities or powers—not only ran with the Witchers of Kaer Morhen, but counted among their pack, had him hard again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm retconning something from the second fic in this series a tiny, tiny bit. In my head, I always had the idea that Lambert and Eskel had sex when convenient, but Geralt wasn't involved. The more and more I wrote in this verse, and the more I thought about the way I'm portraying the characters, I wanted to go deeper into those relationships. Just a tiny change: Eskel and Lambert have had time together, and Geralt likes to watch, but not interact... I'm probably the only one who cares about this change, but if you notice it, no, not a mistake, a retcon... because I should've done it this way in the first place.
> 
> Please enjoy <3

The work of winter distracted Jaskier from the specter of Letho's arrival hanging above their heads. After unloading the supply cart, tending the animals, and carrying firewood around to all the rooms, Jaskier was exhausted, more than ready for a nice soak in the hot spring before dinner.

Informing the others of his plans was easy, they'd been checking in on him all day. In the stables, Lambert poked his head in through the door, his cheek covered in soot. Clearing the flues, then. He tried to pretend he was just passing by and wanted to snatch a kiss—which he did—but Jaskier sensed something _more_ afoot. His suspicions were confirmed when Geralt appeared at his side, arms full of the supplies Jaskier was supposed to be unloading by himself while the others did more difficult work. Eskel really put the icing on the cake. Spattered with dirt and covered in sweat (Vesemir had him felling trees for firewood) Eskel swept in around lunch and leaned over Jaskier's shoulder, supposedly to grab a morsel of food off the table before returning to work...

The quick sniff of his hair sent Jaskier's eyes rolling. He slammed down his fork and turned, glaring at Eskel. “What the shit are you all doing?”

Eskel schooled his face into a mask of passivity, which Jaskier did not fall for at all. “I don't know what you're talking about.” Eskel stuffed an apple in his mouth and beat a hasty retreat.

With a sigh and a shake of his head, Jaskier finished his food and went to attend to the rest of his chores.

He managed to get to the hot spring a little before sunset. The others would still be working, giving him more than enough time to tend to whatever little issues sprang up during the rest of the year when Jaskier wasn't here to maintain it. He opened the door and found Eskel already in the water, leaning on the wet stone, eyes trained on the door.

Lambert appeared at Jaskier's side, followed by Geralt and they started undressing him. He hung his head, giving over to their attentions. “How long have you been waiting for me?”

“Not long,” Lambert said.

“I got your bag and placed everything down here for you,” Geralt said. Jaskier peered over to the nook where he kept all his things and saw his soaps, oils and other tools lined up just the way he liked. Once again, Jaskier rolled his eyes at the usually sweet gesture. But there was a thing as too sweet, especially when used to cover an ulterior motive.

Lambert's hand slid to the small of his back and they all sunk into the spring. The hot water felt like heaven and Jaskier closed his eyes, taking a moment to revel in the enveloping mineral water he'd longed for all year, its gentle healing properties soothing his work weary muscles. When he opened his eyes, they were all still too close. Lambert on one side, Geralt on the other and Eskel behind him, leaning his chin on Geralt's shoulder, six golden eyes on Jaskier, and not the way he wanted it.

“Why?” he asked. He ignored their behavior all day, hoping they might get it out of their systems early on. If they were to pass an enjoyable winter together, the wolves needed to calm the fuck down, Jaskier couldn't fix every worry all at once.

Plastered to his side, one arm around his hips, Lambert nuzzled into his neck. “Geralt told us... you were afraid of Letho. We want you to know, he'll never hurt you, not while we still breathe.”

Jaskier felt all the annoyance drain from him at those soft words. He brought one hand up to stroke the back of Lambert's neck and the other reached out for Geralt, twining their fingers together. “I very much appreciate it, I really do. But he's not even here yet, and you let his specter haunt us. I want to enjoy my winter, I want us all to enjoy.”

“We will,” Eskel said.

“Good.” Jaskier kissed each one of them, leaning across Geralt to get to Eskel. “Then let's start tonight.” His eyes flicked from Eskel to Geralt, then he leaned back into Lambert's lap, waiting for them to put the pieces together.

As usual, Eskel was quickest on the uptake. Hooking his arm around Geralt's bicep, Eskel dragged him out of the pool and down onto the stone floor. He pushed Geralt onto his knees with a little playful snarl. Geralt returned the growl and nipped at the closest part of Eskel—his wrist.

They began to wrestle, pushing and pulling each other, working up a sweat and a good bit of anticipation. Jaskier relaxed back to watch the show only to have Lambert rearrange them. Kneeling them on the bench, he trapped Jaskier between his body and the edge of the pool, forcing him to rest his arms on the ledge, Lambert's cock hot and hard against his flank. The play fight for dominance complete, Geralt rolled back onto his knees and groaned as one of Eskel's oiled fingers slid in. He opened his eyes and started right at Jaskier, lashes fluttering when Eskel added another finger or two.

As soon as Geralt was prepared, Eskel wasted no time sliding in, making every single one of them groan. Bottoming out, Eskel nodded and Lambert's hand curled around Jaskier's cock, making him jump a little in the water—Witcher coordination in battle and in sex, it wasn't fair. He tried to lean back, give Lambert room, but the firm chest behind him, like a stone wall, it would not move. Jaskier was truly trapped, Lambert holding him caged between his arms, one hand stroking him far too slow. This was a cage he was pleased to find himself in and he let his head loll back on Lambert's shoulder.

“Ah, ah,” Lambert tisked. He rolled his shoulder, pushing Jaskier upright once again. “They're giving you a show. You should watch.” The hand on his cock sped up and Jaskier gasped.

Geralt and Eskel were still looking at him. Though Eskel's hips thrust steady and smooth into the moaning White Wolf below him, they only had eyes for Jaskier. Oh, it wasn't fair. Beautiful eyes, devastating looks, bodies sculpted by the gods themselves... how could Jaskier compare to all that? He certainly couldn't hold out under it.

With Lambert's hand around his cock, Geralt and Eskel's beautiful show in front of him, Jaskier came, hips stuttering and thrusting into Lambert's fist. He came so hard, he almost slipped in the pool, but Lambert held tight to him. “I won't let you fall,” he whispered against the back of Jaskier's neck.

It took a moment for the blissful haze to roll out of Jaskier's head. Eskel and Geralt were still going, growling and biting at each other the way they liked and Jaskier almost didn't want to look away. “Lambert?” He leaned back and rubbed himself against the youngest Witcher, feeling for the hard cock he knew was waiting for him. “What can I do for you?”

The lips trailing kisses against his neck stilled for a moment. “Talk to me?” Lambert's voice was so soft, Jaskier almost didn't hear it. “Tell me that you...” He didn't need to finish, Jaskier knew exactly what to do.

Taking his eyes off Geralt and Eskel for a moment, he turned them around until Lambert sat on the bench, and climbed into his lap, the warm water lapping across their chests. He guided one of Lambert's hands to his own cock until he got the message and started stroking, his free hand curling around Jaskier once again. With Lambert's strong thighs under his, Jaskier felt the motion of his strokes and sighed happily to himself, this was shaping up to be a beautiful start to winter.

The second Jaskier's lips touched his ear, Lambert started to shiver. “I've missed you so much this year, you don't even know. I thought of you every day, my fiery young wolf, wondering if you missed me too.”

Lambert groaned. “I did, I missed you so much...”

“That's lovely to hear.” Jaskier nipped at his ear lobe and the strokes sped up. In his position by Lambert's shoulder, he also had a view of Geralt and Eskel, both leaning on one of the wooden benches now, giving Eskel better leverage to set a truly pounding pace. “Do you know what my favorite part of last winter was?”

“Tell me,” Lambert moaned.

“When Geralt fucked me in the dining hall, all of you watching. I didn't think I'd like your eyes on me like that but I did, I loved it so much I'm getting hard again just thinking about it. Would you fuck me like that again? Spread out in front of everyone?”

Lambert sucked in a ragged breath and the arm around Jaskier's back tightened, fingers digging in to soft, creamy skin. “Yes, that was fucking fantastic. Seeing you like that, covered in our smell...” He bit down on Jaskier's neck and inhaled deep. “You smell like us now.”

Oh, Jaskier was not prepared for the feelings that idea provoked. The thought that he—a humble bard with no supernatural abilities or powers—not only ran with the Witchers of Kaer Morhen, but counted among their pack, had him hard and leaking again. Casting an eye to Eskel and Geralt, he saw them speeding up, reaching their climax. No reason they couldn't all come together.

Jaskier slid his hand between Lambert's legs, pressing their cocks together and pulling quickly at them both. “I want you so much, all of you, forever, you're _mine_.” His breath caught, skin singing, so close, so close... “I love you.”

Lambert came with a cracked moan and Jaskier shook in his arms, his own orgasm ripping its way through him. Bright sparks of pleasure flickered in Lambert's beautiful golden eyes and Jaskier kissed the lids reverently. He had an audience of three during the winter, but it was by far the finest audience in all the worlds.

Lambert continued to press kisses and nibble at Jaskier's throat long after they started coming down. Eskel and Geralt grunted through their completion and landed in a heap on the floor. The combination of the mountain trek and the day's work had them all truly spent, almost ready to fall asleep right there in the spring.

A pounding knock on the door shocked Jaskier out of his happy day dreams. “Are you done fucking in there?” Vesemir shouted through the old door. “Dinner's almost ready! And I want a soak after, so I better not find anything left over!” Heavy boots retreated from the door and the three Witchers laughed.

“We're not kids anymore,” Eskel chuckled. “He can't drag us out of here unless we want to leave.”

While Jaskier had half a mind to soak a little longer, a loud growl gurgled from his stomach, so loud, it actually echoed off the cave walls. “I think dinner is a good idea.”

Double checking for any last lingering, uh, fluids, they all got dressed. Jaskier saw a streak of Geralt's come across the floor and went to wipe it away when Eskel held him back, that devious wolf smirk they all had across his lips. “No, leave it. Teach the old man to interrupt us.”

“You are all such terrors.” With a swat to his ass, Geralt pushed Jaskier out the door, Lambert and Eskel close behind.

The dining hall smelled divine, as usual, and Jaskier couldn't wait to taste whatever Vesemir prepared. He missed a lot of things about Kaer Morhen during the year: his wolves and the hot spring, then Vesemir's cooking came in at a close third place.

Vesemir cast an eye over all of them and grunted. “Can't believe you're already at it. Must find harder work for you tomorrow to tire you out properly.”

Jaskier said nothing, his mouth was already filled with lovely roasted rosemary potatoes and he reached to pull a piece of the venison onto his plate. So Lambert answered back instead. “Excuse me, weren't you the one who told every class 'the truth' about sex? I distinctly remember you saying fucking helped keep a clear head.”

“You remember some of my lessons well. The lesson immediately after that one is: don't get too attached, no one will ever truly want you, get your end away, pay well, and get gone.” Vesemir's eyes flashed over to Jaskier, his mouth half open as he tried to answer around too much food in his gob at one time. “I suppose that rule needs a little rewriting now-a-days.”

Jaskier finally managed to swallow. “Good recovery. I can't believe you told them that.”

“Life is hard for a Witcher. We don't teach them to expect softness. You came out of fucking nowhere, little lark.” Vesemir's eyes were trained on his plate so as not to see the stupid grin on Jaskier's face.

They chatted and swapped stories for a while, Jaskier sat between Geralt and Lambert, with the latter pressed tight against his side. He made a mental note to pay more attention to Eskel later, but the other Witcher seemed fine, his eyes kept tracing Geralt's face, like he didn't yet believe the White Wolf was truly sitting beside him. Jaskier let him have a good long look without interruption, he more than deserved it.

When Jaskier went for another helping of meat, the scrape of the front doors against the stone floor captured their attention. A gust of cold wind blew through the corridor into the dining hall before they heard the door slide shut. Heavy boots made their way slowly down the corridor...

Scarred like every other Witcher, Letho's bald head and far too wide shoulders set him apart from even the infamous School of the Wolf. He removed his black cloak and threw it across one of the unused tables, exposing the knives across his chest, the signature weapon of the School of the Viper. He inclined his head to Vesemir and each of the others in turn before sliding his eyes to Jaskier.

The vicious smile that crawled across his face made Jaskier's stomach sour, chasing his hunger away. “How nice to see you all again,” Letho said. “And the entertainment is already here, how fortunate. Where does the line start? Vesemir, you have seniority, you should go first.”

The benches scraped against the floor as Geralt, Lambert and Eskel climbed to their feet. Geralt stepped in front of Jaskier while Lambert took a step towards Letho, ready to challenge him at a second's notice. Eskel fanned out to the other side of the table, beginning to flank. None of them had their swords or any sort of weapon, and there was Letho with a kitchen's worth of sharp knives. Despite the surreal fucking feeling of fear in his stomach in the safest place he knew, Jaskier's heart swelled with love at their protective instincts.

Vesemir lifted a hand to still them and looked at Letho, keeping his eyes and his voice calm. “The bard is our guest, just like you, Letho. If you want to pass a peaceful winter here, I suggest your keep your words—and your hands—to yourself.” He motioned for the others to sit, and they did... with a little reluctance. When he sat down, Lambert was somehow closer to Jaskier.

Narrowing his eyes at the scene, Letho looked at the others again, considering the way they gathered around the human—a simple human, not noble or special, who couldn't give them anything of value—and shook his head. “I'm tired from the journey. I'll take a plate to the guest room, if you don't mind.”

Moving in silence, Vesemir piled a plate with meat, potatoes and bread and slid it down the table towards Letho. He picked it up and turned to leave the hall, calling over his shoulder, “There's a cart of supplies outside! You're welcome!”

When Letho's boot steps faded up the stairs, the room released a collective breath no one knew they were holding. “Well,” Jaskier said. “That wasn't as bad as I thought.” Yes, those empty eyes rolling over him made Jaskier feel hollow and cold, but Letho didn't make any attempt to get near him... maybe he'd spend the winter throwing malevolent glares from afar, Jaskier could handle that.

“Hope that's the worst of it, but expect more,” Vesemir said.

Lambert shook his head. “Why do we even invite him?”

Vesemir didn't have an answer for that. Most Witchers were welcome at Kaer Morhen, the last keep (mostly) standing, he might have to reconsider Letho's invitation in future... Vesemir returned to his food and the others started to do the same, the mood of the room suddenly quiet and muted, all thanks to Letho...

He finished his plate first and got up. “I'm heading to the spring before bed. Don't fuck around too much, lots of work tomorrow.”

As soon as Vesemir's boots retreated, Lambert wrapped his arms around Jaskier's hips and pulled him into his lap, Geralt sliding closer, Eskel joining them on the bench. While he was happy to have them all close, Jaskier couldn't help but notice the sudden differences in the way they touched—Lambert's too tight fingers at his side, Geralt twitching at the smallest pop of the fire, and Eskel finally tore his eyes away from Geralt long enough to check the doors every three seconds, preparing for Letho's possible return.

“What aren't you telling me?” Jaskier whispered. His money was on Geralt to answer first, and Jaskier was a little surprised when Eskel spoke up.

“Letho is a Kingslayer, human kings. He's actually quite well known for it. We're taught to kill monsters, School of the Viper... they're taught to kill for coin. Full stop.”

“So you think if he doesn't want me around, he might...” Understanding dawned and Jaskier looked at all of them in turn, reading the furrowed brows and creased foreheads. “Got it. Probably means none of you will let me out of your sight all winter.” Geralt grunted and rested his chin on Jaskier's shoulder.

Well, Jaskier knew one thing for sure: this was going to be an interesting winter.

~

The next morning, Jaskier awoke to find only Geralt in the bed next to him. “Mmm, good morning.” He wrapped around Geralt's firm body and moved in for a lazy kiss. A hand slid over the small of his back and Jaskier sighed happily. “Where's the rest of my royal guard gone off to?”

“Chores. You're working with me today.” Geralt pulled him in close and slid his nose along Jaskier's neck, breathing in the musky smell of the others mixing on his skin. “Didn't know you were the type to fuck your royal guards.”

Jaskier stretched, allowing Geralt to stick his nose anywhere he liked for the moment. He was always more accommodating first thing in the morning and didn't mind Geralt sniffing at him like a dog. “Oh, I'm rather known for it.”

Geralt paused. “We met when you were nineteen. How far could you possible have gotten?”

Jaskier smirked down at him. “Very far. I thought you might have assumed that. I mean, I didn't bat an eye about crawling in bed with three _Witchers_ , you had to know I already had a few miles on me.” One day, Geralt might seriously ask about Jaskier's past (not his past lovers, per se, that conversation would take all winter) and maybe one day, Jaskier might answer him. But it hadn't come up and he didn't want to discuss it just yet. He wasn't embarrassed by the way he chose to travel the Continent in his youth, he merely didn't want to get into the reasons he had to.

A few final kisses and Jaskier rolled out of bed, Geralt following him. They got dressed and headed down towards the dining hall to see what might be left of breakfast. After splitting a loaf of bread between them and the remaining oatmeal, Jaskier sighed. “Alright, what backbreaking—and inappropriate for a human—labor will we be undertaking today?”

“I'm laboring. You're carrying.”

They went out to the courtyard and unloaded the cart of supplies Letho brought, which mostly consisted of booze. After Jaskier tended to the animals, Geralt pointed him towards a wheelbarrow filled with buckets of mortar and told him to follow. They went back through the front doors, making their way down the halls and corridors, Geralt stopping every few feet to patch a weak spot. By the time they finished the dining hall, Jaskier didn't feel the draft as much. The old castle always whistled with some amount of wayward wind, but it was much better now. Geralt retrieved some boards and tools from outside and Jaskier held them while he boarded up a broken window, a casualty of a storm, not any renewed fighting, though Jaskier privately thought one of them might push Letho through a window, sooner or later.

Work finished for the day, Geralt returned all the tools to the courtyard and came back to find Jaskier almost asleep on the dining hall bench. He extended one hand down and pulled the bard to his feet. “Hot spring?” Jaskier asked, a little hope in his voice.

“Yes, for a minute to clean up.” The sight of Jaskier sweaty, covered in dirt, his tired eyes dropping a little like they did after a good fuck... Geralt didn't try to stop the low purr in his chest and pulled Jaskier in close. “I want you to myself before the others come back in. I already miss our alone time.”

Without the obscuring armor, Jaskier had no trouble feeling the hard cock currently pressing against his hip. They'd been at Kaer Morhen a day and a half and he'd yet to get his hands on that cock, which felt like a terrible oversight. He arched into Geralt and the purr turned into a growl. “Alright, you've convinced me, quick bath, then you can fuck me.”

“No.” A familiar tongue lapped at his neck, licking at the sweat he hoped to wash away. “I want you to fuck me. I need to feel you touching me everywhere, outside to inside.”

Geralt growled the words into Jaskier's skin and he started to tremble. “Oh, fuck.”

“That's the idea.”

Geralt half-carried Jaskier to the spring, as he was having a bit of trouble moving his feet. He closed the door behind them and pushed Jaskier against it, quick, efficient fingers removing clothing in record time. They sank into the water and Jaskier spared the smallest amount of thought to washing the sweat and dirt from Geralt's hair before pressing kisses all over his face and neck. He would've gone lower if Geralt didn't crush them together, hands grabbing, teeth biting, all of him desperate to feel.

It wasn't often Geralt came out and said what he wanted, Jaskier usually had to make do with educated guesses based on his reactions, and the difference between ten grunts that all sounded very similar. To hear Geralt tell him, actually tell him, what he wanted—no, _needed—_ was a heady drug. No matter where they were or how hard life treated him, Geralt knew he was safe with Jaskier.

Much to Geralt's surprise, Jaskier urged them out of the spring after only quarter of an hour. “You said you needed me to touch you,” he mumbled against Geralt's lips, he hadn't stopped touching since they entered the spring. “Let me, please, I want to give you what you want...”

Geralt took a moment to decorate Jaskier's skin with love bites before allowing him to leave the water. He dried them both off and they quickly made their way upstairs—not before Jaskier noticed the brand new lock on the inside of the hot spring door.

But up in their room, it didn't matter. Whether they had sex in the hot spring or in their bed, Jaskier was going to give Geralt everything he needed. The room was warm with the fire and Geralt spread out on the rug in front of his hearth, pulling Jaskier down with him. Though not as waif-ish as his clothing suggested, Jaskier's solid body still weighed as much as a feather to a Witcher, it took little effort for Geralt to balance the bard on his chest, tongue probing that sweet mouth, licking from the corner of his lips to the back of his tongue, drinking as much as he could take before Jaskier insisted they move on.

He let Geralt kiss him until his lips were puffy and deliciously swollen, the way they looked after a really good blow job. Though it pained him a little, Jaskier pulled back. “Give me a minute.” He rolled off Geralt's chest and went over to his bags, finding the pine scented balm. Kneeling on the rug next to Geralt, he lifted one strong leg into his lap. “Let me take care of you,” he whispered, and opened the jar.

A light pine fragrance bloomed through the air. Geralt watched with heavy eyes as Jaskier took some of the cream onto his fingers and rubbed it along Geralt's cracked feet. “By the end of winter, you'll be better moisturized than me.” Geralt sat back and let Jaskier go, rubbing the smooth balm into his thighs, elbows and shoulders, the skin going warm and soft wherever he touched. He closed his eyes, giving himself over to the pampering he never allowed anywhere else.

Of course, Geralt was not inattentive, just relaxed. He noticed the second smell in the air when Jaskier opened a bottle of chamomile oil and trailed a slick finger against his cheeks. He let it go for a moment, enjoying the probing fingers pressing lightly, warming him up like he hadn't had Eskel going to town on him just last night.

When Jaskier seemed ready to slide a third finger in, Geralt pushed him back. Too fast for mortal eyes to follow, he flipped them over, pinning Jaskier to the rug. A little dazed at the swift movement, Jaskier shook himself. “I thought you wanted to—”

“Oh, I do.” Geralt picked up the oil and made a show of dripping it over Jaskier's cock. “I most certainly do.”

The strong grip around his cock made Jaskier jerk, hands flailing for something to hold onto in their new position. When Geralt moved to straddle him, his hands naturally fell to his hips, rubbing gently even as he recognized the look in Geralt's eyes—Jaskier was about to be ruined, in the best way.

The fat head of Jaskier's cock met Geralt's rim and he couldn't help the groan of satisfaction. Eskel went too fast sometimes, didn't let Geralt enjoy that first smooth slide. With Jaskier pinned under him and more than happy to stay there forever, he took all the time he wanted to slowly lower himself, feeling every inch as it entered him. While he was no Witcher, Jaskier was a fortunate man, cock thick enough to satisfy even the most demanding lover. It's part of the reason why Geralt never asked for this out on The Path. He wanted to take his time and enjoy, time they didn't always have camping out in the woods.

Once he was fully seated, Geralt took a moment to feel, extending his mind to really absorb the room around him—the twitching of Jaskier's fingers, constantly moving against his skin, not quite sure where to grab but wanting to grab everywhere at once; the warm fire and soft fur rug under his knees... The light smell of the pine balm and chamomile wasn't the most natural pairing, but the two scents melded together in a picture of the moment: the tender care Jaskier lavished on Geralt, and the thorough fucking he was about to deliver.

Geralt placed his hands over top of Jaskier's and slowly leaned forward, pushing those talented hands up over his head, until Jaskier was stretched out. Only the wicked curve of Geralt's smile made him realize... arranged like this, under Geralt's heavy body, hands held above his head, Jaskier was pinned to the floor and totally at the mercy of the White Wolf.

It started slow. Using his too strong thighs, Geralt slowly pushed himself up—relishing the delicious slide of Jaskier's cock—until the head caught his rim. He hovered there for what felt like an eternity before sliding back down, his every muscle contracting and squeezing around Jaskier, quickly driving him to madness. The next came a little faster, then faster again, until Geralt's rhythmic movements had Jaskier struggling to draw a full breath.

He tried to buck up, contribute a bit to their love making, but Geralt held him in place with a glare, squeezing his wrists just hard enough to remind him who was in charge at the moment. Sure, Jaskier's shoulders had started to twinge, and the sweat on his brown trickled into his eyes, but he wasn't about to tell Geralt to stop, he'd gnaw his own arm off before asking the feral fucking mountain man grinding on top of him to do anything but keep fucking going.

The lock on the door clicked open and Jaskier gave half a thought to making sure they weren't interrupted by an unwelcome guest, but Geralt didn't turn towards the door, so neither did he, he just started up into those eyes of molten gold, trying to speak but only producing moans.

Eskel and Lambert closed the door behind them, putting the lock back in place before fully taking in the goings on. Jaskier expected a lot of locked doors this winter, he wasn't sure how he felt about that...

“Fuck, I love when he does that. Makes it seem like you're going to fuck him, then climbs on top and makes you never want any other ass,” Eskel said, the filthy words chasing the dark thoughts from the edges of Jaskier's mind.

Eskel settled on the bed while Lambert knelt on the rug, right next to Jaskier. After a quick glance at Geralt for permission to intrude on the moment, he dragged his fingers down Jaskier's chest, following the beads of sweat. “Did Geralt ever tell you? When I was young, before I even had my medallion, I walked in on them one winter. The castle was crowded back then, no one had their own room except Vesemir and the other teachers. Geralt and Eskel always roomed together... Eskel said he'd spar with me and I came in to find Geralt doing exactly this, probably on this same rug. He held Eskel down, thighs wrapped around him, teeth bared, like he was the one doing the fucking. I'd never seen Eskel so fucking open. He just lay there and let Geralt fuck him blind.

“They let me stay and watch, and after, Eskel jerked me off and finger fucked me while Geralt watched from the bed. The boys in my year, we fucked around in the hot spring or after training... but it was nothing like this. The way they touched me, I'd never felt like anyone gave a shit about me before. And there was no one but them...” he dragged one finger down the side of Jaskier's cheek, tracing his lips, “not until you came along.”

With Lambert's finger against his lips, Geralt's body squeezing around him, and Eskel's heavy eyes on them all, Jaskier came. Eyes rolling back in his head, his vision whited out, sparks of pleasure shooting through his stomach and down his legs, he couldn't _feel_ his legs. The warm fire so close, making his skin sweaty and hypersensitive, Jaskier kept coming, he didn't know how long it went on...

His eyes fluttered open to find Geralt hovering over him, gently stroking his hair. Eskel and Lambert were stretched out on the bed, Eskel nibbling lightly at Lambert's neck. Gold eyes slid over to Jaskier. “Is he awake?” Eskel asked.

“Just about,” Geralt said. He helped Jaskier to his feet and dropped him into the bed with the others, sliding in after him. “Good?”

Most of his wits had returned, enough for Jaskier to scoff at the clearly ridiculous question. “Good? You ride me like a fucking horse for the first time since last winter, I obviously black out, and you ask me if it was _good_? It was fucking perfect.” He snuggled deeper into his pile of Witcher and prepared for a nap before dinner. “I can't tell if you're all really this modest, or if you're a bunch of ego maniacs fishing for compliments.”

Geralt chuckled. “A little of both, probably.”

With his eyes closed, Jaskier had to feel out which body was which by touch. He felt a familiar scar cutting through an eyebrow, but it didn't extend down through plush lips—Lambert. “That was a lovely story. Tell me,” he whispered, voice already drowsy. “Was any of it true?”

“All of it,” Lambert said. “During my training, I looked forward to winter, because I knew they'd be back. Whether Eskel fucked me, or just let me watch them, I felt...” He bit down on the emotional words threatening to spill, more out of habit than anything else. Jaskier waited patiently for Lambert to finish, opening one sleepy eye and stroking his face with a soft hand, tickling at his ear and getting a little shiver. “They were the only ones who saw me. At first. I spend more time with the other schools than most ever did, I've had... friends. Before.”

“Mmm, yes, loads of Cats,” Eskel said.

“And that Griffin,” Geralt added.

Lambert gave them both a lazy shove. “Friends, yes, a few friends over the years. But you're not a friend, are you little lark? You are so much more.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You want to watch our training?” Geralt asked. “It's not very exciting.”
> 
> “Maybe for you, you've been doing it all your lives. I think it'll be fun," Jaskier said.
> 
> “Letho will be there,” Geralt said. “We're trying to keep you away from him, not stand you next to him with a sword in his hand.”
> 
> “I think it's a good idea,” Lambert said. “We'll all be there to protect him, and Letho won't try anything in front of Vesemir. Besides, if Jaskier sees that we can beat the shit out of Letho, maybe he won't see him as much of a threat.”
> 
> “Beat the shit out of Letho” turned out to be an understatement. Bright and early the next morning, Jaskier made his way into the courtyard with the others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I try to update every other day so I can read through for typos and continuity. But I'm a needy baby who loves and adores everyone who comments and reads, and you all make me so happy, I want more of your kind words. Daily updates it is, then!
> 
> Please enjoy, if you see a typo, let me know and I'll fix it.

A few days after they arrived, the castle was settled and the Witchers' training regime was set to begin. Vesemir was clear— “I don't care if one of you wants to guard the lark at all times, you're not excused from training.”

“I could come watch?” Jaskier suggested before they all started arguing.

“You want to watch our training?” Geralt asked. “It's not very exciting.”

“Maybe for you, you've been doing it all your lives. I think it'll be fun, I can gather all sorts of ideas for my next ballad. Deep in winter, the sleeping wolves do not rest, sharpening their claws for the beasts of spring.” He looked at each in turn, none seemed impressed.

“Letho will be there,” Geralt said. “We're trying to keep you away from him, not stand you next to him with a sword in his hand.”

“I think it's a good idea,” Lambert said. “We'll all be there to protect him, and Letho won't try anything in front of Vesemir. Besides, if Jaskier sees that we can beat the shit out of Letho, maybe he won't see him as much of a threat.”

“Beat the shit out of Letho” turned out to be an understatement. Bright and early the next morning, Jaskier made his way into the courtyard with the others. They exchanged morning kisses before they left bed, there was no room in training for that kind of softness, Jaskier more than understood. This was the one moment he needed his Witchers to be tough as the steel swords they carried, not just for their sake, but for the sake of the whole Continent.

Vesemir was already there, leaning on a freshly patched yet still crumbling wall. Letho was there as well, brooding on the other side of the courtyard, sharpening his many, many knives. He saw the wolf pack approaching and had a nasty smile just for Jaskier.

“Sit there.” Geralt pointed to a small bench a little ways away from the main training area, close enough to observe. Maybe they should've put him on the upper balcony to watch...

“He'll be fine,” Vesemir grumbled. “I'll be nearby.”

Geralt nodded and joined the others. “Lambert, Eskel together, Geralt and Letho together. We're starting with hand to hand this morning, no Signs.” Vesemir's gaze lingered on Letho at that last instruction, though he didn't trust the Viper to stick to it.

They paired off and moved to give themselves space to work, Letho's eyes on Jaskier until the moment before he struck out at Geralt. Geralt easily blocked, countering with a swift punch to the gut. Jaskier had been on the receiving end of that punch once, it didn't look like Letho felt it...

Letho hit back and Geralt barely dodged out of the way, then Letho's other fist met his gut, returning the blow. The sickening slap of hard knuckles hitting flesh—Geralt's flesh—made Jaskier jump. Vesemir laid a hand on his shoulder to steady him. “Footwork, Lambert!” he shouted. “Eskel almost tripped you!”

Geralt and Letho exchanged a few more blows, blood starting to drip from shallow scrapes across cheeks and noses. Maybe this wasn't a good idea... when Jaskier thought about the Witchers training, he never imagined actual strikes, he didn't know what he thought they did, but the reality was more than he could handle. “How can you stand this?” he whispered, trying to keep the shake out of his voice.

Vesemir's eyes never strayed from his students, but Jaskier still felt like he had the old Witcher's undivided attention. “I've spent lifetimes watching young boys make each other bleed. It's harsh, but it makes them stronger, it's why they still come back for winter: a well used sword needs sharpening and care. I sharpen them, you care for them.”

Oh, he most certainly did. After training, Jaskier was going to pile them all into the hot spring and rub whatever they wanted—backs, shoulders, necks, cocks—he'd put his hands on anything to make his wolves feel cared for.

He wanted to watch everyone, Jaskier was very interested in seeing Lambert and Eskel's fighting styles, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from Geralt. Blood ran down his lips now but Letho wasn't in much better shape. His nose looked a little crooked, and his right eye was starting to swell.

Geralt used Letho's size against him, dodging and weaving, turning them in circles to disorient and tire him out, and it was working. The extra mutations Geralt went through allowed him to move with the grace of a man half his size, he even gave Lambert a run for his money, and Lambert trained with the School of the Cat for fun.

Letho swung around with a strong haymaker, Geralt ducked and hit back with a cruel uppercut, connecting under Letho's jaw with a crunching snap. The blow sent Letho onto his back. Geralt followed, standing over the man and delivering one strong punch to his nose, crushing it for good.

He wound up for another when Vesemir shouted, “That's enough! Run the walls, both of you!”

Letho hopped to his feet and pushed past Geralt to get a head start. Jaskier heard another loud crack as Letho reset his own nose. He shivered and stepped closer to Vesemir. “Why did Geralt do that? Letho didn't even say anything to me today, there's no reason...”

“He smells your fear.” Vesemir's eyes traced Geralt and Letho on the walls, neck-and-neck for a moment before Geralt over took him, then Letho jumped ahead. “We all do. He doesn't like it.” For the first time since training began, Vesemir took his eyes of his students and looked Jaskier up and down. “I don't like it either.”

Jaskier wrapped his arms around his shoulders and hugged himself, trying not to watch Geralt and accidentally catch sight of Letho leering. “I, uh... I don't... I'm not afraid.”

Golden eyes stared him down. “Jaskier. Don't lie to me, boy.”

He bit his lip and hung his head. “I can't explain it. I try not to think about him, but whenever I do...” Jaskier hated himself for his weakness. Years following Geralt, all the beasts he'd seen and run towards, add in half a winter verbally sparring with Lambert and Eskel, and he had no reason to fear anyone, least of all a Witcher. He tried to shove his fear away, ignoring it, but smells never lied.

“Do you know why humans are afraid of snakes?” Vesemir asked. His eyes returned to Lambert and Eskel, still fighting, light bruising on cheeks and jaws, nowhere near as bad as the beating to Geralt's handsome face. “It's an instinct the gods build into fragile creatures, they make you afraid of what can kill you. We're stripped of most of those instincts, it's partly why people think we're emotionless, we run towards the things that scare humans the most. And I will give you the same lesson I gave every boy who came through this keep: trust your instincts. They keep you alive.”

Geralt and Letho finished their run and Vesemir had everyone change partners, Geralt with Eskel, Lambert with Letho. While it took almost ten minutes for Geralt to deck Letho, Lambert was running the walls after two, Letho right behind him, malevolent eyes on Lambert's stupid, smug back as he managed to stay ahead of the bulky Witcher.

Sign practice came next and Jaskier watched with a clenched jaw as they threw fire at each other, blocking it with Quen. The jet of fire emanating from Eskel's fingers took his breath away... too bad it was aimed at Letho, and the Viper hit back just as hard when his turn came around. Eskel cast Quen and the shield looked twice as thick as the others', the flames didn't come close.

“Eskel is the most skilled with Signs, the best I've ever seen,” Vesemir said.

“So I've heard.” A strong Aard pushed Letho back until he hit the courtyard wall, his Quen shield breaking under the sheer power of it.

“This has distressed you, hasn't it? Seeing them like this.”

Jaskier shook his head. “I honestly don't know. Would it be better if it was just them? I've seen them fight with each other before...” Small shoves and hip checks in the dining hall, nothing real. Fuck, this wasn't even real, it was practice.

Vesemir was silent for a moment. “Letho does not like our library,” he said. “The library at the School of the Viper was... very specialized. They were secretive even in their own ranks, and he doesn't like that we keep our knowledge out in the open for any Witcher to use. If you'd like to wait in there during training, I'm sure the others would see that as the best solution.”

“Mmm, that does sound better.” Better than watching them beat each other bloody, or being locked in their bedchambers by himself.

Vesemir broke up training an hour or so later and Jaskier sighed in relief. Letho disappeared after tossing one last evil glare his way, and the others quickly crowded around him, touching Jaskier, sniffing his hair for any lingering traces of fear.

“Oh, stop fussing.” He looked them over, examining swollen faces that had long stopped bleeding. Geralt, as he suspected, was the worst of them all. While his nose wasn't broken, there was a lot of swelling near his eye, and the split in his lip had opened again. Jaskier brushed a soft hand through his hair. “Hot spring, all of you. I'll see what I can do to put you back together.”

In the spring, he washed each of them in turn, concentrating all his attention on the wolf currently under his hands. Jaskier had some arnica balm and rubbed the soothing cream over Geralt's face, watching the swelling go down in front of his eyes. He shook his head. “Add the right medicinal flora with Witcher healing, and you'll believe in miracles.” A little bit of the powerful medicine went a long way and soon, Lambert and Eskel had returned to their old handsome selves as well.

He washed Geralt's hair slowly, dragging his nails from the top of his head to the nape of his neck, fingers circling the shell of his ear. Lambert sat by the spring, dipping his feet while he waited his turn, while Eskel sat on the floor between Jaskier and Geralt, one arm wrapped around Geralt's leg. He rubbed Eskel's shoulders, and sat in Lambert's lap as he scratched his scalp, neck and ears, drawing soft moans and small grumbles from the youngest Witcher. The more he touched and felt them—real, solid, alive—under his fingers, the more the knot in his stomach loosened. He couldn't walk around the castle, he couldn't enjoy the things he liked to do in winter, but he could fucking take care of his Witchers, there was no way to stop him.

When they were all tended to, wounds mostly healed, hair soft and clean, Jaskier let them pull him into the spring. He'd done his caring and let his body relax, limbs loose and pliable as they moved him around and did as they pleased. Lambert rubbed his shoulders as Eskel and Geralt took turns sucking bright red love bits into Jaskier's neck and chest—marking him in a way. When Lambert's turn came, he lifted Jaskier from the water and nipped at the inside of his thighs, slowly making his way towards the center.

“Oh, fuck,” Jaskier sighed when Lambert licked up the side of his cock. He curled his fingers in the short dark hair, not as good of a hold as Geralt, but more than adequate. Lambert spent one long moment licking up and down Jaskier's cock, kissing the head, dipping down to lick the seam of his balls. By the time he got around to opening his mouth and taking Jaskier deep, the bard was already quaking.

Wet lips sucked around the head of his cock, tongue massaging his foreskin. Jaskier tightened his grip in Lambert's hair in warning, but he just picked up the pace, taking Jaskier deep into his throat.

Jaskier was so wrung out after this morning, not to mention all the attention he gave the others, his hips barely jerked as he came, spilling down Lambert's throat with a loud moan. Lambert caught him before he slipped back and pulled him into the water.

With his head resting against a firm chest—Jaskier wasn't sure which one at the moment—he sighed. “Thank you.”

“You do the same for us,” Eskel whispered. Fingers trailed over the love bites on Jaskier's neck and he smiled.

His smile faded when his wits started to return. “I don't think I want to watch your morning trainings again. I don't like seeing you bloody and bruised.” He had enough of that on The Path with Geralt, winter wasn't a time to patch wounds. “Vesemir said the library would be a... safe place for me to be. While you're outside.”

The three exchanged a look over Jaskier's head. “That sounds good,” Geralt said. “We'll come get you, as soon as we finish for the day. And then the rest of our time is yours.”

“Yes, that sounds nice.” He nuzzled back into the warm body holding him and sighed. “I'm sorry I was afraid today. I never want to make you worry for me, but I don't know why I can't... control my fear around...” He didn't want to say the fucking name, not here, in the hot spring, _their_ hot spring.

“It's alright. It's difficult for humans to control their emotions.”

“Mmm,” Jaskier hummed. “And I know that means you'll never let me go anywhere by myself for the rest of winter.”

“No.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Not a chance.”

“Oh good, a chaperon. It'll be like university all over again.” Jaskier closed his eyes and dozed a little until dinner, trying not to think of his heavily guarded winter.

~

While Jaskier hated being chaperoned around the castle, he loved each chaperon dearly. He quickly sussed out how much he could get away with: steamy kisses in a corridor with Eskel before he pulled them into a bedroom; he could get a hand down Lambert's breeches before he moved them to a “safer” location; Geralt was the most difficult to get anything by, the moment Jaskier pressed himself close, he spirited them away to a bedchamber to continue their activities.

Their sense of adventurous fucking hadn't completely disappeared, more... changed venues. Jaskier was treated to a different bed every night and enjoyed looking at the belongings each chose to gather. Geralt's room was the most familiar, shelves stacked with a books, scrolls, a startling number of paintings (some stacked on top of each other) old armor and a few weapons scattered about. The most curious object by far was a child's wooden horse with a child's messy hand writing across the stomach: Roach.

One day, Jaskier picked it up and waved it in front of Geralt's eyes. “There has to be a story here.”

He shrugged and took the horse, putting it back on the shelf. “Liberated a town from a wraith in the graveyard. The mayor's daughter liked Roach and gave me her toy as part of my payment.” He looked at the old toy, worn with age, the wood dry and brittle. “This was so long ago, might even be my first Roach. She was a good mare.”

Eskel's room was a little more conventional, slightly less junk shop. The theme he seemed to be working on was: books. Every book he found, all the books in the world, three copies of the same book because he lost it once and wanted to make sure he had it always, _books_. Jaskier saw four full bookcases, not all of them filled with “witcherly” subjects. He found more than a few volumes of history, a decent collection of novels and poetry books (one or two from professors Jaskier had at Oxenfurt) and the most surprising of all: a shelf of elven romances.

“Eskel, my, my...” Jaskier thumbed through the pages of one. It was a lot of flowery prose, but the story was clear—a dashing elven soldier captured by an evil band of humans, only to be rescued by his rakish boyhood lover. “I've never seen writing like this in print, certainly not in the main stream. When I was in school, the only place one found stories like this was carved into the underside of desks.”

Eskel came up behind him, crowding him in towards the shelf, his smell swirling around Jaskier, filling his senses. “You'd be surprised what people are willing to part with when you start a rumor of a constabulary raid on the market.” Lifting the book from Jaskier's hands, he bit down on that delicate neck. They'd all been doing that far more than usual, marking him, leaving obvious love bites only a blind man could miss. Jaskier definitely didn't mind a little possessive behavior aimed in the right direction.

He guided Jaskier's hands to brace on one of the shelves and started unlacing his breeches. “Do you know _The Swallow and the Bear_?”

Even without Eskel's hands working on getting them naked, Jaskier would blush at the mere thought of _that_ poem. “Oh yes, I really do. Haven't had a request for a recitation outside a bath house.”

“Mmm, I'm requesting it now, if you don't mind.”

Jaskier started performing the absolutely filthy poem as Eskel's slick fingers probed at his hole, reaching the, uh, climax of the piece when that thick cock slid inside him. It might've been Jaskier's finest poetry recitation ever.

Lambert's bed was the smallest, so Jaskier was only in there on nights when Geralt and Eskel wanted to be alone. He didn't mind, Jaskier got enough of each of them, and he knew their bond was special, any fool could see that.

While Lambert's room was mostly decorated with weapons and armor, Jaskier noticed different designs, different schools. “The others don't like that I fraternize with School of the Cat,” Lambert said. He was spooned around Jaskier, their hips slotted together very intimately. Jaskier was naked but Lambert kept his breeches unlaced and half open. They'd fuck later, right now, Lambert was simply enjoying touching the bard, part of him still didn't believe it was real, not even when he had his hands on that soft, fragrant skin. Jaskier tried to counter those doubts but at times, it was best to let Lambert go and discover his own truth. Jaskier was here, real in his arms, and he wasn't going anywhere.

“Why's that?”

Lambert shrugged. “School of the Cat changed the formula, Vesemir thinks too much, and they didn't just get new recruits through the Law of Surprise, they gathered street children and outcasts too, gave them another option. If they went to far, it's not for me to judge.”

Jaskier was the last person to speak on the morality of Witcher behavior—Vesemir was the man who flogged each of his sons, yet he loved them deeper than any of them knew—Witchers were complicated beings, no doubt about it.

Just as Lambert's cock began to fill out and his hips thrust lightly against Jaskier's backside, Jaskier pulled away. “There's something I want to try...” He kissed Lambert before climbing out of bed, goosebumps rising across his skin in the cool of the room. He quickly found what he was looking for in the form of a School of the Cat gambeson, Jaskier recognized it by the small cat head stitched at the neck line.

Pulling the oversize garment over his shoulders, Jaskier turned to face the bed, letting the padded fabric fall open, framing his chest and hard cock. “Come and get me.”

Lambert lept from the bed with a feral growl and fucked Jaskier against the wall. He left the gambeson on for the rest of the night.

The one bit of freedom Jaskier had was the library. He'd explored a little last year, but with the draw of the hot spring and the newness of it all, he didn't see as much as he wanted. Well, now he had hours each morning to pour over the old books, play his lute and compose, and there was even an intact study table for his ingredients.

Much like Eskel's private library, the shelves here were filled with all sorts of books—monsters, plants, alchemy and Signs, to be sure—but poetry, art, music and history as well. Jaskier busied himself in the poetry section, trying to find a book of dirty poems and ballads as old as dust but still raunchy as hell. Maybe he'd recite some when Eskel licked his asshole...

He found said book, _Poem Moste Glorious_ (very modest those old poets) and put it on the work table, then sought out another old favorite, less erotic and more... romantic. Alas, he didn't find his romance and sat down to read the filthy poetry. By the time his wolves returned from training, Jaskier lept at them, trying to touch them all at once, making sure they were all aware of the bulge in his breeches.

“Can we fuck in here or do we have to go upstairs?” He tried to rub against them all at the same time, spreading his scent around the way he knew drove them mad.

Geralt took a look at the book Jaskier had on the desk and smirked. “He got into Barmin's smut collection. Come on, upstairs.”

Lambert lifted Jaskier, who quickly wrapped his legs around Lambert's hips, looping his arms behind his neck and pressing feverish kisses across his adam's apple. Eskel lagged behind for a moment, picking up the book. “Huh, I don't have this one.” He tucked it under his arm and joined them upstairs in Geralt's bed, where Lambert had Jaskier's breeches around his ankles and his head between his thighs.

Some afternoons, Vesemir returned to the library without the others.

“Sent them hunting,” he said. “We're short on fresh meat. They asked me to watch you.” He shook his head. “Don't know what they expect, Letho is with them.” He gathered a few books and settled on one of the old couches to read, leaving Jaskier to his work.

Jaskier made sure to clear off the study table carefully, putting any stray papers and books away on their shelves, safely out of range of splashing oil. He unpacked his bag and placed the large block of soap in the center of the table. Hmm, not as large as he remembered, he was only comfortable cutting maybe four smaller bars from it, the towns they passed through really cleaned him out... Jaskier could make more soap if needed, with so many fires around the castle, wood ash wasn't a scarce resource.

He decided to stick with what he had. Four bars, four Witchers. He removed the mold from his bag and arranged all the ingredients for Vesemir's soap—rosemary, oatmeal, and some fresh spinach leaves from the greenhouse—then started working. Cutting the block of soap into four quarters, he placed one of the quarters in the mold to melt over the library fire. The oatmeal was a little too coarse at the moment (there was a line between exfoliant and stripping skin) and Jaskier ground it down finer with his mortar and pestle. Grinding the spinach next, the moist leaves soon broke down, leaving a brilliant green paste to color the soap.

With a pair of old hunting gloves liberated from the armory, Jaskier pulled the hot mold off the heat—the soap didn't take too much to melt but hot metal demanded care—and quickly added the shredded rosemary, the oatmeal, and the green paste. Stirring quickly, the plain soap took on a green hue, the scent of rosemary swirling up from the hot waxy substance. Pleased with the result, Jaskier set the mold near the window to cool and retrieved ingredients for the next bar.

He had a circular mold in his bag, one he hammered out himself when Geralt left him behind with a blacksmith who set them a contract. Jaskier spent the day entertaining the client's little boy, who had a pile of metal scraps to play with. The child didn't mind sharing, and Jaskier walked away with a new soap mold.

The jar filled with orange zest was easily the brightest thing in his bag and Jaskier found it quickly. “Running low on honey...” he mumbled to himself and used the last to mix with the orange peel, adding it to Lambert's batch.

Once again, he set the finished soap on the window sill to cool and cleaned up the desk. He only had the two molds right now and couldn't make any more until they were freed up. At least he was in a library, lots to read while he waited.

A sudden snore caught his attention and Jaskier turned to find Vesemir asleep on the couch, book open on his chest. He'd heard stories like this from Geralt, with Vesemir's advancing age, he tended to nap in any comfortable place. It was good to know Witchers still had some things in common with humans, it gave Jaskier hope for the others, that they might find a bit of normalcy once all the fighting was done. _But it never will be done_ , the unhelpful voice in his head reminded him.

Spotting a blanket on top of another chair, Jaskier removed the book from Vesemir's chest and covered him carefully, so as not to disturb his sleep. He picked up another book and settled in against Vesemir's side to read, keeping the old wolf warm while they waited for the others to return.

Jaskier didn't know how much time passed, he started to doze at some point, the sound of heavy boots in the hall rousing him to attention. He opened his eyes just as Letho walked through the library doors.

Sweat beaded across Jaskier's neck, his heart pounding in his ears. He leaned closer to Vesemir—still asleep—as those flat, empty eyes found him. Letho regarded Vesemir for a quick second before stepping over the library threshold, stalking towards Jaskier.

“So you're getting it from Papa Wolf too? Never would've guessed. Is it only Wolves that interest you?” Letho dragged his tongue over his teeth, then snapped them in Jaskier's direction. The dark shadow of a bruise curled around his jaw, probably from one of the others.

Mind working too fast, Jaskier saw the next few minutes in his head. First, Letho would throw him to the floor, disorient him, then attack Vesemir—Vesemir wouldn't let anything happen to Jaskeir, so taking him out first was key. Jaskier couldn't fight Letho, couldn't match him in speed or strength, but he could make sure he never got to Vesemir.

He climbed over Vesemir, putting himself between the sleeping Witcher and the angry Viper, finally free to attack without the others standing vigilant. After half a season of daily beatings, part of him understood Letho's craving for payback. But he needed to leave Vesemir out of it.

“What kind of asshole attacks a sleeping man?” Jaskier spat.

For half a beat, Letho's step faltered. Those were the first words Jaskier spoke to him since meeting him on the road, and they were... an insult. “What kind of crazy idiot insults a Witcher?”

“The kind of crazy idiot who fucks Witchers,” Jaskier snapped back, baring his teeth the way he'd seen Lambert do, it probably didn't have the same effect. “Back the fuck off.”

A shiver of anger shook Letho's shoulders and he took another menacing step towards Jaskier. “Your puppies beat me every day because you can't take a joke, and I'm supposed to back off?”

“Oh yes, I'm a whore, some joke. Like I haven't heard that a thousand times, I'm a fucking bard! Be more original.” _STOP_ , the small, still rational voice in Jaskier's brain told him, it was the voice that tried to keep him out of trouble. For evidence that he rarely listened to it, see: his whole life. “I wouldn't fuck you if you paid me.” _Insane, you are insane_.

A spark flashed in Letho's eyes before it snuffed out, the first sign of actual emotion Jaskier had seen in him. Anger wasn't a real emotion, not when it came to Witchers, it was the fake veneer they used to cover their actual thoughts and feelings. Until this moment, fake, shallow window dressing was all Letho had. “Maybe I'll punch those teeth in, make that pretty mouth less pretty. It'll give your puppies a real reason for payback.”

Letho was steps away from the couch, more than close enough for his long reach to land a devastating blow. Jaskier closed his eyes and turned his cheek, preparing for the hit. It'd be his own fault too. He just couldn't keep his mouth shut...

An arm curled around Jaskier's stomach, just above his navel. “Leave him alone,” Vesemir's growl of a voice said.

Jaskier opened one eye and saw a friendly yellow gaze peering at him. Splayed across Vesemir's chest, back to him, all but sitting on his leg, his position looked... odd. Alright, it looked bad, but it was the only way Jaskier knew how to put himself in Letho's way. He'd explain later, he only hoped Vesemir wasn't too put off by his terrible attempts to protect him.

Vesemir turned his attention to Letho, who retreated a few steps the second the old wolf stirred. Not such an idiot after all. “What do you want? You're supposed to be hunting.”

Letho stepped all the way back to the threshold of the library, eyes flicking over Jaskier, still protecting Vesemir with his whole body. “Your pack of feral puppies ditched me, I came back on my own, wanted to see if I'm allowed to use the hot spring while they're out chasing their tails.”

Vesemir checked Jaskier's expression, why, the bard had no idea, it wasn't his castle. “Don't take too long, I like a soak after dinner.”

“Fine.” Letho turned and stalked away. Out in the hall, Jaskier heard him grumble, “It's the only good thing about this ruin, and they've been fucking hogging it all winter.”

The adrenaline pumping through Jaskier's body disappeared as soon as Letho did, leaving him a shaking, shivering mess. Vesemir's other arm circled around him, holding him steady as he trembled, tears rolling down his cheeks. “Breathe, little lark, breathe,” he said.

Jaskier sucked in a ragged breath, then another. He felt a little better. “Why... w-what, why did I say that?” _Why did you antagonize a Witcher? Do you want to die? That's how you die, and it would be your own fault too_ , the rational voice said. Jaskier decided to listen to it for a change. That was no doubt, the stupidest thing he'd ever done. Like he'd be any sort of protection from Letho intent on hurting Vesemir. He was useless—no, worse than useless—he was the one who decided to poke the snake in the eye.

“Hey.” A firm hand slapped his back, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to get his attention. “Keep breathing. I don't want to tell the others you passed out in the library.”

Closing his eyes, Jaskier focused on taking regular deep breaths until the shaking went away. Only then did he realize he was still seated on Vesemir's leg. “S-sorry, I didn't mean to...”

Vesemir let him move away, but kept one hand on his shoulder. The other cupped his chin, checking his pulse and examining his eyes. “Not a full blown panic. Might be able to get it passed them.” He sniffed the air around Jaskier, the way he'd seen the younger Witchers do a million times. “Find a convincing lie.”

“You... you're not going to tell them?” Jaskier almost had the shake in his voice under control, he was still working on the tears.

Vesemir shook his head. “It was their fault, I'm watching you, they were supposed to watch Letho. I won't let them restrict your one freedom based on that.”

“You make it sound like I'm a prisoner. I'm not.”

“No, you're not, they're over cautious.” The hand on his shoulder rubbed up and down, the firm hand of a father calming his child. Jaskier didn't imagine much kindness in a Witcher childhood, but Vesemir seemed to know what he was doing, how often had he comforted the others like this?

When Jaskier's heart returned to normal and his tears dried, Vesemir looked him over again. “Better?”

He nodded. “Better.”

“Good.” That formerly calming hand seized the scruff of his neck—not too hard, but Jaskier definitely felt it. The kind smile wrinkling the corners of Vesemir's eyes vanished, the stern line of his mouth painting a very different picture. “Don't. Fucking. Do. That. Again.” He emphasized each word with a yank on Jaskier's hair, once again, not hard, but hard enough... “Next time you back sass Letho, I will tell them. I'd like to get through winter without bloodshed, but if you continue being foolish, I won't cover for you again.”

“I thought he was going to attack you,” Jaskier hissed out. It sounded so stupid out loud like that...

“Attack me? That's what you thought?” Vesemir shook his head and released Jaskier's neck, standing up. He retrieved his book from where Jaskier put it and sat back down, wrapping an arm around his smallest son. The book open in his lap, Vesemir shook his head. “The lark protects a wolf from a snake. What were you thinking?”

Geralt, Eskel and Lambert trooped in about an hour later, snow and cold still clinging to their hair and skin. Lambert reached him first, pushing between the two older Witchers and pulling Jaskier into his arms. A cold nose immediately found its way to Jaskier's neck.

“What happened?” Geralt and Eskel crowded around him as well, all of them ignoring Vesemir, they didn't see their teacher's eyes watching. “You smell...”

“You're panicked,” Eskel said.

Geralt pressed his nose into Jaskier's hair. “Are you alright? Did Letho—”

“I had a nightmare,” Jaskier said. He wrapped his arms around Lambert's neck the second they touched, but let his legs hang limp, it wasn't much effort for Lambert to hold him up and Jaskier was too exhausted to stand right now; panic did that to him. “I fell asleep and Vesemir woke me, said I was shouting. I don't remember the dream, but you know...”

Nightmares, now this was a crowd who could relate. Geralt sniffed him again and seemed to accept the explanation.

“Come on, let's get changed, then we'll give you good things to dream about.” Geralt nipped at his ear lobe and slid a hand down his back.

Jaskier let them carry him back upstairs and do wonderful, wicked things to his body. He didn't like lying to his pack... maybe after winter ended, he'd tell Geralt the truth. It didn't matter at the moment, all Jaskier cared about was Geralt's mouth around his cock and Eskel's fingers in his ass, just as it should be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to commenter Rayven, who told me lye can be made from wood ash. Another commenter (whose name I can't remember, I'm sorry, I love every one of you) said they'd like to see a scene of Jaskier working and making soap. I tried to deliver that this chapter without sounding too much like Tyler Durden.
> 
> I really wanted to show the personality of Geralt's room in the first part of this series, but with the hot spring, I did get caught up with that story line. I hope everyone enjoys the various Witcher bedrooms and what treasures they decide to keep. I also wanted Jaskier to have more library time this time around. Again, I wanted to put him in the library earlier, but the hot spring kind of filled up my brain.
> 
> I wanted to write out the poem "The Swallow and The Bear." I got this far:  
> "A fine little swallow flew through the air,  
> The wind hitting her breast with the most glorious flair,  
> Along came a bear tired from his hunt,  
> Looking to sample her juicy cunt."  
> And realized I could never write a better line than that, and gave up.
> 
> Arnica is a medicinal flower, and I've taken arnica pills after a surgery. It's supposed to help with bleeding and bruising. That is the extent of my knowledge there. If I got anything wrong, please let me know.
> 
> I hope everyone is enjoying this story so far <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vesemir took to sleeping in the library quite a bit after that, and he always showed up in the greenhouse when Jaskier collected ingredients. It seemed the oldest wolf had been roped into Jaskier's royal guard as well. Or maybe he volunteered, Jaskier wasn't sure, but he was definitely going to hold his tongue in front of Letho from now on. One close call was enough for him.
> 
> Jaskier did take them all aside and insist they stop beating Letho to a pulp. “I don't think it helps our case,” he said. “Besides, he definitely got the message by now.” It took a few days, but the bruising on Letho's face finally faded, and he stopped glaring at Jaskier across the dining hall, so he called that a win.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is essentially my love affair with Lambert's character. It's a little shorter than the others because chapter five just kept getting longer, and longer, and longer, until I had to split it. Please enjoy my mini-Lambert character study while he and Jaskier cuddle and have very hot sex.
> 
> All mistakes are mine, please let me know if you find a typo and it'll be fixed.

Vesemir took to sleeping in the library quite a bit after that, and he always showed up in the greenhouse when Jaskier collected ingredients. It seemed the oldest wolf had been roped into Jaskier's royal guard as well. Or maybe he volunteered, Jaskier wasn't sure, but he was definitely going to hold his tongue in front of Letho from now on. One close call was enough for him.

Jaskier did take them all aside and insist they stop beating Letho to a pulp. “I don't think it helps our case,” he said. “Besides, he definitely got the message by now.” It took a few days, but the bruising on Letho's face finally faded, and he stopped glaring at Jaskier across the dining hall, so he called that a win.

Life felt more or less normal by the time they reached deep winter: Jaskier spent every evening and most mornings buried under at least one gloriously fit body, the finest pleasures the world had to offer at his finger tips, then most days lounging around, reading, playing his lute in the quiet of the library, tinkering with scent combinations. It wasn't as bad as they all thought it would be.

During a week of heavy snow—too glacial and windy for riding or hunting—Geralt and Eskel started climbing the walls, needing an outlet more than morning training. Jaskier moved his things to Lambert's room for a few nights and told them to have at it. “As long as you need, scratch each other up, I don't care, just as long as you enjoy yourselves.”

Geralt grabbed Jaskier for a bruising kiss and Eskel swept around behind to nibble his neck, both leaving more than a few marks. “Thank you,” Geralt whispered. Lambert whisked him away and they left the others to it.

Curled together in Lambert's bed, Jaskier had a botany book propped up on a pillow. Every few minutes, Lambert shifted and the book fell flat on the bed. Jaskier didn't mind, he was mostly looking at the sketches, trying to learn to identify useful plants by eye as well as Geralt did.

For a while, Lambert seemed content to wrap around him, hips pressed tight to his ass, wider body mostly covering Jaskier; he was no waif, but he was also no Witcher and each of his lovers covered him completely. He felt the first stirrings of Lambert's cock and said nothing for a moment, waiting for what came next... A soft moan and a roll of his hips, Lambert started humping his ass.

Jaskier closed the book of plants and placed it safely on the floor before giving Lambert his full attention. “What brought this on?”

Teeth found his neck and Lambert thrust a little harder, not interested in penetration quite yet, he was enjoying Jaskier's creamy skin against his near feverish cock. “I can hear them,” he whispered.

“Oh...” A vision of Geralt thrusting into Eskel, both men covered in scratches and bites, filled Jaskier's mind and had him tenting the sheets. “That sounds lovely.”

“Yeah, it really is. Years I don't have company, I love listening to them.” A hand traveled down Jaskier's chest, between his legs, squeezing lightly at the base of his cock, dark hair curling over his fingers. “It's even better when they invite me to watch.”

“Wish I had your ears, then we'd both enjoy the show.” Jaskier arched back and let Lambert grope and grasp to his heart's content. More was on the way, but this was good for now, a nice slow build. “Lambert, can I ask you about something?” Lambert slid a thumb through the fuzzy hair on Jaskier's balls, making him gasp at the light touch. He'd taught them well, it seemed, a little too well...

“Sure.” Lambert busied himself sucking a bruise into the top of Jaskier's shoulder, one of many. Jaskier couldn't remember when his skin was one uniform shade, unblemished by the beautiful love bites.

“You said Geralt and Eskel, uh, _involved_ you, back when you were young. If you'd already been with them, why were you so... reluctant when we met on the road?” He wasn't looking to push boundaries, there was just so much between the three that Jaskier had no idea about, so much history and harsh love, he wanted to know as much as they'd share with him.

Lambert hummed against his skin for a second, thinking. “It's more me and Eskel. I watch them both, together, but Eskel likes to fuck me. Geralt is always off to the side, watching. Not just back during training, but winters too, when I don't have a guest. Geralt always watches.

“Seeing you on The Path last summer...” He pressed his face between Jaskier's shoulders, hiding, but his hips continued their lazy rolls against his ass. “I know the rules with my brothers. We all belong to each other, in a way, we come from the same place. Geralt doesn't have sole claim on Eskel.”

The pieces started to fall together. “But I'm Geralt's bard. Amongst your brothers, Geralt had no right to keep Eskel from you, his personal bard, though...”

“Yes.” Lambert held Jaskier tighter, squeezing the breath from his lungs in the most delicious way. “You see? Why I was so fucking surprised he shared you with us?” Those teeth were back, digging into Jaskier's shoulder as Lambert's hips sped up. “He found you out in the cold world, a man made of light so bright, you warm every room you step into, even our cold mountain den. He could've hidden you away, kept you to himself, but Geralt let your light warm us too. I had to know if the rules extended outside into the world, or if you were to be held in winter only, like the last ember from the fire.”

Tears rolled down Jaskier's cheeks and his breath hitched, he studied under the finest poets Oxenfurt had to offer, and none of them could hold a candle to the savage beauty Kaer Morhen bred into its boys. He turned over, pushing their lips together, the salt of his happy tears mixing with the lingering tastes of Lambert's vile moonshine and the evening roast. “You're all fucking poets, and you don't know the half of it. You say the most heartbreaking things...”

Lambert licked the salt from his cheeks before kissing him again, slow and deep, but hungry, Lambert was always hungry for more. He nibbled Jaskier's bottom lip until it was plump and rosy, licking into his mouth like he was trying to claim it. Well, Lambert could plant the flag of Kaer Morhen in his ass any day.

When Lambert's fingers slid down the crack of his ass, gently probing his hole, Jaskier shook his head. “I want you to take me the way Eskel took you, all those years ago, the first time.”

In the dim room, only the dying fire and a few weak candles providing light, Jaskier almost saw a blush across Lambert's face. “I say heartbreaking things, and you, little lark, say the most erotic things. Fuck, it's not even fair.”

Fumbling for the bottle of chamomile oil, Lambert urged Jaskier up onto his knees, but pushed his shoulders down to the bed, so his ass was high in the air. Imagining a younger Lambert in the same position, muscles not as hard, limbs long and whippy, trying to show off for the more experienced Witchers whose eyes had landed on him. “Uh, fuck,” Jaskier moaned, a fat drop of precome dripping onto the sheets.

“Yeah, Eskel liked my ass in the air. He doesn't do that with Geralt, they're too similar. They like being on equal footing—you've seen them.” While Jaskier appreciated the in-depth analysis of Eskel and Geralt's fucking technique (he'd follow up that trail of thought later, oh yes) he was much more concerned with Lambert's cock and why it wasn't inside him right the hell now.

One oily finger circled around his rim and Jaskier tried to shove back, only to have Lambert retreat. “Eskel likes to tease me. I thought you wanted the full experience?” Jaskier _heard_ that fucking smirk, the one Lambert wore when he first realized he was the only one with enough patience to tease Jaskier. Geralt was the easy one, Jaskier knew all his buttons and reaction spots better than anyone, a soft whisper in his ear and nails against his scalp and he broke; Eskel didn't tease much either, too impatient to feel Jaskier under him, lute calloused fingers rubbing over his adam's apple, making him purr. Jaskier didn't fail to see the irony: the most impatient and hot tempered of the lot was the only one who could hold out long enough to watch Jaskier squirm.

Jaskier sighed the second the slick digit slid inside him and bit his lip. “I can take more than that...”

“Oh, I know you can,” Lambert said, and continued gently pressing with just one finger.

Jaskier loved a good tease as much as the next man, but with Lambert's firm, god like body right next to him, and his two other gods fucking each other senseless a few rooms away, Jaskier was not in the mood to be patient. Lambert might want to tease him all night—wouldn't be the first time.

Jaskier wiggled his hips and arched his back a little more. “Tell me what you hear, what are they doing to each other?”

Lambert's breath hitched for the smallest moment, and a second finger pushed into Jaskier. “Sounds like Geralt is fucking Eskel. I hear wood creaking, they're probably against the bookcase.”

Ah, yes, Jaskier knew exactly which one. It was the only bookcase bolted to the wall, and the second shelf from the top was clear of Geralt's trinkets and scrolls. Jaskier had no clue why until the moment Geralt pushed him against it and told him to hold on. With his hands braced on the shelf, Geralt pounding into him from behind, Jaskier wasn't sure when his feet left the floor, only that they did, and he came all over an empty plant pot decorated with a familiar looking splatter design.

Lambert's other hand came to rest on his thigh, and Jaskier felt that magnificent cock brush between his legs, the head resting against his balls. “It sounds like, oh... I think Eskel just came. Geralt's not stopping.” While Jaskier winced at the thought of pushing through post orgasm sensitivity, he knew none of the Witchers minded. He'd seen Geralt go for three consecutive rounds without his cock dropping one bit. Sometimes, he wondered if the incredible stamina was an intended result, or just a byproduct of whatever else had been done to them.

Making Lambert recount what Eskel and Geralt were doing to each other had the desired effect, and soon, he had three fingers in Jaskier's ass, stretching him open, thrusting, satisfying, his teasing completely forgotten. “They've moved,” Lambert said, his breath coming faster. “Eskel shoved him back on the bed, I think... yeah, Geralt's grunting now. Eskel's fucking him.”

While it wasn't the fanciest prose, Jaskier only cared for what it did to Lambert. All too soon, he grabbed for the chamomile oil again, and while most of the action took place behind Jaskier, the sound of the stopper was unmistakable, the familiar smell filling the air once again. They all gravitated towards their own scents, even before Jaskier made soap for them—Geralt earthy and natural, like walking through the snowy woods; Eskel's metallic metal tinge enhanced by the grass and lilac, when they touched, Jaskier tasted the magic pouring over his skin even though he could not see it; and Lambert, sweet, spicy and sharp, like the first rains after a summer drought, spreading every fragrance muted by the dry heat up into the air, perfuming the countryside—but each one of them preferred the chamomile oil when they meant to fuck Jaskier _hard_. His toes curled into the sheets, waiting.

The fat head of Lambert's cock popped past his rim and Jaskier whined. “Yes, more, yes!”

Lambert quickly bottomed out, making Jaskier gasp, then pulled back again, leaving only the head stretching Jaskier open. “I know what you're doing,” Lambert panted. One large hand stroked down Jaskier's thigh while the other held tight to his ass, the tip of Lambert's thumb hooked into the edge of his hole, spreading him a little wider. “I wasn't ready to fuck you yet, I wanted my fingers in you a little more. It's fine, we can do both.”

Lambert slid his hips forward and Jaskier concentrated on the sensation of that glorious cock entering him inch by inch, followed by Lambert's broad thumb. Just the tip at first, just enough to stretch him wider around what started as a near impossible girth. Jaskier remembered the first time he saw Geralt's cock, how his mouth watered. A mere three days after their first adventure, they were stopped by a stream and he stole a look, or maybe Geralt _let_ him look. It didn't matter, from that moment on, Jaskier knew no one else would ever compare, and then, lo and fucking behold, the other wolves were similarly blessed. Jaskier had been more than satisfied for years now and finally, Lambert had the genius to see if they could push it a little more.

“Yes!” Jaskier pressed his face into the sheets, tears of pleasure leaking from his eyes. “Yes, put it all in.”

There was a little huff of laughter behind him “Huh, really? I was just teasing.”

Jaskier shook his head. “No, give it to me, your cock and that finger. I want it.” He so wanted it, more than he thought possible a moment ago.

“Alright.” Lambert's thumb slid in beside his cock and Jaskier _felt_ the webbing of his hand at the edge of his hole. His rim burned, tingling pleasure spiking through his pelvis and down his cock, all the way down his thighs to where his knees dug into the bed. Part of him wanted more but knew this was as far as they should go... for now.

Jaskier growled. “Fuck me. Now.”

The demand in Jaskier's voice even as Lambert had him—quite literally—pinned in place and split open, made the young Witcher's cock twitch. Eskel bossed him around sometimes when they fucked, and now that Jaskier was at it... he didn't hate it.

Lambert started thrusting in earnest, not as hard as he'd planned given the added stretch, but enough to satisfy, he hoped. Any question of Jaskier's satisfaction was answered a moment later when a keening moan dripped from the bard's lips. Lambert's head brushed just right inside him and the moans got louder, spurring Lambert go faster, trying to wring more sounds out of his lark.

The rhythmic fucking in the other room paused for a moment and Lambert chuckled. “They stopped,” he said, a little breathless. “They stopped to listen to you. Sing louder, lark, give them a show.”

Jaskier made a valiant effort to work through a scale but quickly lost track of where he was. He managed to get a hand around his own cock and jerked himself in time with Lambert's thrusts, the pleasant burn in his ass ebbing to a delicious ache. One last thrust and Jaskier came, hole trying to contract around far too much filling it. The muscle spasms pulled Lambert over as well, and he added his voice to Jaskier's weak moans. Sparks lit up behind his eyes, cool fire tingling through his cock and filling Jaskier with his seed.

Lambert barely managed to keep himself upright after all the remaining energy in his body poured out of his cock. Some how, he got Jaskier straightened out and they both ended up lying wrong way up on the bed. Eh, it was fine for tonight. Lambert used his foot to flip the pillows down to the other end of the bed and carefully tucked one under Jaskier's head. The bard looked... out of it, to say the least, and truth be told, Lambert wasn't far behind him.

Footsteps in the corridor brought him back to attention and he held Jaskier closer. The door opened, Geralt's silhouette lit by the torches in the hall, white hair down and unmistakable. “Is he alright?” Geralt asked.

Lambert chuckled and scented Jaskier's neck, double checking before he answered. Nothing but soft licks of satisfied lust and the usual sunshine smell that clung to Jaskier. “He's fine. We, uh, tried something new. Something good, by his reaction. I'll tell you about it tomorrow. Go back to Eskel.”

“Hmm, alright.” Geralt went to close the door, then stopped, glancing at Jaskier's sleeping, yet blissful face. “Definitely tell us tomorrow.”

The fucking in the other room started again, this time, Lambert made out a few _interesting_ whispered words. “Jaskier is totally fucked out, we have to know what Lambert did...” Geralt.

“Mmm, yes. I want to ruin that bard, just like you ruin me.” Eskel.

Lambert shut out the rest of their conversation—he liked listening to them fuck, but Eskel hated an audience when he was being vulnerable. He entertained himself listening to Jaskier's heart and stroking his hair, smelling the subtle changes in his natural fragrance as he slept.

A few hours later, Jaskier's eyes fluttered open. “Ugh, I'm all sticky.” Rolling out of Lambert's arms, he went to the wash basin and gave himself a quick scrub before returning to the bed. “Thank you for trying that,” Jaskier whispered.

Lambert hummed and threaded his fingers through soft, slightly sweaty hair, stirring up more of that exhausted satisfied smell he'd been inhaling for the past few hours. “No problem.”

“I know I'm spoiled,” Jaskier said, soft, almost like a secret whispered into Lambert's skin. “I shouldn't want more... but sometimes, I really, really do.”

Lambert turned the words over in his head. “More... do you mean—”

“Two of you at once.” His fingers traced little circles in Lambert's chest hair, like he hadn't just put the most lascivious thoughts in Lambert's head. Sex acts he'd only ever heard of in a brothel, where most of the workers were already, uh... blessed, with a second place to fit such a— “If you don't think it's a good idea, that's fine.”

“I didn't say that.” Lambert was careful with his words. He didn't want to speak for the others, and, of course, Jaskier spoke for himself, it wasn't their job to police his desires. If anything, it was his job to fulfill Jaskier's desires, and he definitely couldn't manage this one alone. “Maybe... we talk to the others about it tomorrow?”

Jaskier nodded, sleep over taking him again. “Yes. After all, I need at least two of you to be willing.”

“I don't think you'll have trouble recruiting all three of us.” The idea of Eskel's cock right next to his, both of them squeezed inside Jaskier, was... heady. Or, maybe just watching Geralt and Eskel both wrapped up in Jaskier. Lambert definitely saw the benefits of this idea.

Jaskier's heart beat a little faster for a few minutes before evening out again. They were both too tired for more. “You want to know what I liked most about meeting you and Geralt on the road?” Lambert asked after a few minutes of silence.

“Hmm?” Already half asleep, Jaskier only managed an interested moan.

Lambert leaned in close, lips brushing his ear. “That slap. I never knew you had it in you. I couldn't stop thinking about it for _days_.”

“Mmm, I can slap you again. All you have to do is ask.”

“I'll keep that in mind.”

As Lambert pressed soft kisses across warm skin, he placed his hand over Jaskier's chest, feeling that heart, hearing it, smelling human blood pumping away, thrumming under a thin layer of skin, muscle and bone. At first, Geralt insisted they all touch Jaskier like a tender hot house flower, one wrong move might send his petals scattering to the wind. Yet the more Lambert learned of Geralt's delicate lark, the more he saw an angry raven, ready to peck a man's eyes out to protect his flock. And what a strange flock they were.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Vesemir's handwriting, the note read:
> 
> Training is canceled this morning, I'm going hunting. When I return, I plan to stay in my room with a selection of books. Feed yourselves dinner. By tomorrow morning, I expect to have my keep back. You will all run the walls as payment for allowing you defile my dining table.
> 
> Geralt passed the note around, as they all read it, gold eyes slid to Jaskier, one set after another, wide and suddenly hungry. By the time the note reached Jaskier, they were already planning. “Where should we go first?” Lambert asked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few people asked about the individual scents Jaskier makes for each Witcher, they are: Geralt, pine and cedar; Eskel, lilac and grass; Lambert, orange/citrus and honey; Vesemir, rosemary and oatmeal. I've also mentioned that Jaskier himself likes rose oil, almond and vanilla, and a few others.
> 
> A lot of fucking in this chapter... again. I don't think anyone minds. This is also the end of "Part 1 - The Wolves of Winter." Not the end of this fic, but I separated it into "parts" because it made me feel better, narrativly speaking. Part one takes place during one winter, part two takes place during other seasons. Please enjoy <3

The day the passes began to clear, Letho announced his departure. There was still a month left in winter and he'd rather brave the stormy mountain than stay. Jaskier didn't know if he'd call that a win or not. That night at dinner, he shoved the last potato into his mouth and stood up—he never stayed late to play cards with them, not even past winters when he wasn't threatening Jaskier for entertainment.

There had been a few more... altercations. Running through the corridor after Lambert, only to find the way blocked by the angry Viper. He snarled and stared down at Jaskier before Lambert chased him off. And one memorable day, he tried to enter the library again, now knowing that was Jaskier's “hiding spot.” Vesemir sprang awake out of a deep sleep and bellowed loud enough to call Geralt and Eskel from the courtyard where they'd been practicing together. Letho was gone before they arrived, but dinner that night had not been pleasant. Angry glares from all sides had Jaskier retire early, leaving them all to menace each other in peace.

“I'll leave in the morning, the way is clear enough,” Letho announced. “I won't winter here again, this den was not built for me.” Those empty snake eyes lingered on Jaskier. Geralt moved closer. “In fifty years, it won't matter, either he'll be dead, or we will. I'm interested to see who lasts longer.”

Silence filled the dining hall as four Witchers listened to Letho's steps, up the stairs, down the hall... finally, the door slammed and they all breathed a sigh of relief. “Fuck, I'm glad he's leaving,” Eskel said. “He's a damn dark cloud over the place most years.”

The dark cloud of Letho—seriously, they were all more poetic than they knew, one day Jaskier had to write down the things they said—gone for the first time all winter, happy chatter soon filled the room. Lambert pulled out some cards to tempt Eskel and Geralt left to fetch Jaskier's lute from the bedroom. He hadn't played after dinner once this year and he was itching to sing for his pack, watching the satisfied smile on Vesemir's face when he played something old and familiar.

When Vesemir went to bed, the games continued. Lambert beat Eskel (several times) and they started betting chores instead of money. Eskel had to bring in the next three loads of firewood, and give Lambert a blow job. Jaskier stopped playing to wet his lips on some of the good wine—the bottles they only brought out towards the end of season—and Geralt moved in close.

Lips tickled Jaskier's ear as Geralt whispered, “Starting tomorrow, we're going to fuck you in every room in this castle. We have a lot of lost time to make up for.”

Not taking his eyes off the game, Eskel nodded. “We certainly do.”

The next morning, they all came down for a big breakfast— “You'll need your strength, Jaskier, you'll thank us later,” —to find the dining hall empty, a folded piece of paper next to a tray filled with their desired breakfast.

In Vesemir's handwriting, the note read:

_Training is canceled this morning, I'm going hunting. When I return, I plan to stay in my room with a selection of books. Feed yourselves dinner. By tomorrow morning, I expect to have my keep back. You will all run the walls as payment for allowing you defile my dining table._

Geralt passed the note around, as they all read it, gold eyes slid to Jaskier, one set after another, wide and suddenly hungry. By the time the note reached Jaskier, they were already planning. “Where should we go first?” Lambert asked. “The hot spring?”

“No, save that for last. It'll be a nice rest,” Geralt said.

“Did we ever fuck in the library last winter?” Eskel asked. “You haven't lived until you've heard Jaskier recite dirty poems while speared on your cock.”

“Hey, hey!” Jaskier flapped his arms. “Anyone want to consult me? It's my ass you're making plans for.”

Geralt swept in, holding Jaskier close and smelling his hair. No more fear, just that lovely sunshine smell mixed with fragrant oils. “We're excited. Do you think any of us liked being cooped up?”

“Or do you think we liked having to give you permission to walk around?” Eskel's far too deep eyes met his and Jaskier melted.

“No, of course not.” Jaskier opened his arms and Eskel moved in close, pressing their foreheads together. “No matter what we decide, today is going to be lovely.” He rubbed their noses together before pulling back and nudging Eskel towards the table. “Given our new freedom, I have preparations to make. Eat, save some for me, but please eat. I'll be back.”

Geralt stopped him and combed the guest chamber (all of Letho's bags were gone) while Lambert checked the stables (his stallion was gone as well) before they let him out of their sight. It was a bit of a relief, no royal guard for the first time in months, but Jaskier found he missed them almost as soon as they were gone from his sight. There was a gap at his side, a broad, Witcher-shaped gap.

Up in Geralt's room—though, it might as well be everyone's room for how many of Lambert and Eskel's clothes were strewn around the floor—Jaskier retrieved a fluffy fur throw from the bed, and his bag of oils, they'd probably need a lot of oil today... A quick change of clothes and he scurried downstairs.

Three noses sniffed the air when Jaskier returned, they noticed the change of clothes—Lambert's gambeson tied over Eskel's red tunic, Geralt's over large breeches—and the fur... but the pieces had yet to fall into place. Jaskier finished the remaining toast and munched on an apple, enough food for energy, not too much to make him sluggish. Of course, he felt three sets of eyes on him the whole time, watching his lips, the delicate undulation of his throat as he swallowed. None of them were shy about openly staring at Jaskier, but there was a new hunger in it today. They were completely alone, free to be as wanton, as brazenly lustful as they desired. For the first time, the wolves were free to ravish, and they intended to make the most of it.

Jaskier finished his food and cleaned off the table. Geralt tried to reach for him but he slid out of his grasp, holding him in place with a look. He pushed Geralt down onto the bench and Lambert and Eskel followed suit, sitting like any night at dinner. Jaskier threw the fur across the table and climbed up, pulling off his boots before standing.

He peered down at them all, his best performance smile in place. “Now, earlier this year, Geralt promised you'd worship me this winter. And while I feel very loved, I don't think I've had enough adoration.” Lambert's hand started curling around his ankle and Jaskier threw a wink in his direction. “I want my promised tribute.”

“What do you demand from us? Your loyal subjects?” Eskel smirked and ran a hand up Jaskier's exposed calf, thumb tickling as he went.

Jaskier flicked his feet, lightly kicking Eskel away, then Lambert. “I want you to listen.”

His fingers settled on the top most tie of the gambeson, pulling at the loose knot. “Please attend, for a recitation in the style of _The Swallow and the Bear_ , Jaskier the Bard of Kaer Morhen presents: _The Lark and the Wolves_.”

The coarse cotton tie slid free of its knot, exposing a blot of bright red. “Three brother wolves met in a glade; gathered to speak of their glorious crusades,” Jaskier said, plush lips forming every word perfectly, extending his voice to the rafters of the hall like he would at a proper performance, not standing on a battle scarred table with three Witchers salivating at his feet. “I met a bear, said the first; and his cock did quench my glorious thirst.”

Lambert fidgeted on the bench as Jaskier's fingers opened the second tie, lingering on the third... Eskel held him down with a hand on his thigh. Jaskier didn't explain the game, but Eskel got the feeling... if they didn't play along, they'd have no reward. They all looked up at Jaskier, still fully clothed save decadently bare feet, pretty pink toes curling in the fur spread across the table. Geralt balled his hands into fists, nails cutting into his palms in an effort to distract from the bard not six inches away, so close, yet so untouchable... for the moment, at least.

“'Twas a griffin for me, the youngest spake; he fucked me raw until my legs did quake.” Jaskier rolled his shoulders back, the gambeson falling to the table, his eyes locking with Lambert. Once again, Eskel's hand on his thigh stilled him. A quick fluttering wink from Jaskier told them they were on the right track... play by the rules and pleasure was sure to follow.

Jaskier twirled on top of the table, turning his shapely backside to their eyes. Geralt's loose breeches did his figure no favors, but the smell of them—their clothing, their armor—covering their bard, lit the fire in each Witcher's belly. “The White Wolf stayed silent, for his tale was best; he gathered his brothers closely abreast.”

Opening the laces of Eskel's tunic, Jaskier twirled again. His surprisingly thick chest hair peeked from the top of the tunic, slowly revealed as he pulled the laces free. “Such pleasures I have found, my brothers dear; a beautiful lark with feathers of silk; his voice is a pleasure for all to hear; I'll never find another of his ilk.”

Eskel's tunic was so large on Jaskier, once the ties were free, he lifted his arms and let it slip down over his shoulders and hips to pool at his feet. He stepped free of the material, hands dropping to his waist. “What did he do to make him such a prize?; the young wolf asked with doubtful eyes; I've seen many larks here and there; they speak nonsense as they fly through the air.” The pair of Geralt's breeches he selected was very intentional—it had buttons, so many buttons, to pull open and tease with.

The first button popped open. “My lark is beautiful, my lark is fair; blue gems in his eyes and a voice so sweet; but there's far more to see 'neath all his flair; come meet him now, it'll be a treat.” Thumb hooking behind the rough fabric, the second button opened. “Through the sky the lark did streak; down to the wolf pack who him did seek; hair of chestnut and eyes like sin; down to their den, they invited him in.” The last three buttons opened in quick succession, revealing Jaskier's throbbing cock to his audience. He wrapped one long fingered hand around the base and shoved the breeches down, kicking them away.

“He sang so sweetly to the wolves in turn; soon, for him, their hearts did burn.” Geralt, Eskel and Lambert all held their breath as Jaskier bent back, long neck extended, making his obviously masculine form so elegant and slender, yet his firm chest so prominent, thick trail of hair connecting from his chest down to his cock. He bent back farther than any of them expected, even Lambert, the most flexible of them all. Resting a hand on the table, Jaskier made it all the way down to the fur, planting his feet wide, opening himself up for them all to see.

“They fucked him raw, no more could he ask; and when night fell they shared a cask.” A quick glance at Jaskier—eyes soft and lidded, lips parted, a flush rising on his chest—Geralt slowly moved from his seat, placing one hand high on Jaskier's thigh, just below his sac.

When he met no resistance, a low growl rumbled deep in his chest and Geralt lunged onto the table, covering Jaskier. Though the barrier of Geralt's clothes needed to be seen to, nudity wasn't his objective just yet. As Jaskier continued reciting the dirty (yet strangely romantic) poem, Geralt slid his nose along creamy skin, inhaling the scents of his brothers and himself clinging everywhere.

“Drunk on wine, drunk on love; they lay together with only the stars above.” Jaskier threaded his fingers through Geralt's hair and threw his head back, exposing his throat. Another hand curled around his calf, just below his knee, and a third still brushing at his waist. “Yes, White Wolf, the brothers did say; your lark is fine, we'll have him to stay.”

Lambert passed a bottled of oil into Geralt's hands while Eskel ripped him out of his tunic and breeches. “Their den was warm from that day forth; the fire of love burning in the cold north.” Two fingers plunged inside and Geralt moaned at the tight heat, imagining it around his cock. Jaskier's voice did not stutter or falter, he was determined to finish his recitation perfectly. “He fucked them all winter, he'd fuck them all year; for each wolf now did the lark hold dear.” Geralt thrust inside, and Jaskier wrapped his arms around his neck, feeling Lambert and Eskel close by, touching wherever they could reach. “Heed the words this bard doth speak; a fool believes love makes one weak; but three wolves with their lark in tow; are stronger still than any man may know.”

His poem complete, Jaskier closed his eyes and gave himself over, filling the hall with his cries of ecstasy. Lambert seized one of his hands and ran his nose along Jaskier's wrist, inhaling deeply before nipping the tender skin. Eskel appeared over Lambert's shoulder, already free of his clothes, and began stripping him. His eyes met Jaskier's, even as Geralt's overwhelming presence filled his every sense, Jaskier still saw Eskel's shining eyes with the promise of his turn coming next.

It didn't take long for Jaskier to shudder and shake, spilling across his stomach, some of his come sticking to Geralt. The While Wolf growled again, picking up the pace. His hips snapped forward and he howled, burring himself to the hilt in Jaskier's hot body. His gripping fingers left soft bruises, his teeth left marks, and Jaskier didn't care. If he went to bed at night without a single mark, he considered the day wasted.

No sooner had Geralt pulled out and climbed off than Eskel climbed on, his already slick cock sliding home. They both shuddered as the firm thrusts forced Geralt's come out, set it dripping down Jaskier's legs. Eskel leaned in close and whispered in Jaskier's ear. “That was nothing like _The Swallow and the Bear_ ,” he chuckled.

Jaskier sighed. “Everyone's a critic. Do you like his smell on me?” Geralt was sitting nearby, he heard every word they were saying, no one in this room had any misconceptions about Eskel and Geralt, yet it still felt like a secret saved for long baths and cold nights under the warm sheets, not to be spoken in the middle of the cavernous dining hall.

Eskel's hips canted faster, one hand gripping tight to the table, the other at Jaskier's waist. “Yes. Why do you think I wanted you next?” Eskel crushed their lips together hard enough to draw blood, the copper tang mixing with the taste of Geralt's kisses, and Jaskier's intoxicating smell. It didn't take long for Eskel to come, adding to the mess spilling across the fur and the growing mess on Jaskier's skin.

Jaskier could barely lift his legs when Lambert climbed onto the table, but the youngest Witcher took pity on him, rolling Jaskier onto his side, before spooning up behind him and sliding in. “Uh, fuck,” he hissed into Jaskier's neck. “Isn't this always the way? Youngest brother gets the sloppy thirds. Good thing I love it.” Teeth pulled at Jaskier's earlobe as his hips rolled, slow and lazy. “You smell so fucking ripe, Jaskier, fruit ready to fall off the branch into my hand.”

Jaskier couldn't answer if he wanted to, he closed his eyes and concentrated on the feel of the room around him—the soft fur under them, Lambert's firm hands holding him, his hips gentle and sweet while his lips spat sharp words. All winter, this was what he desired, making love out in the open, not pushed away in darkened bedrooms. If Kaer Morhen was the only place he could truly love his wolves, then Jaskier wanted to be as open as possible within these walls.

Lambert came with a muted curse, a shudder running through his whole body. More sticky come filled him and Jaskier moaned despite his exhaustion. Maybe they shouldn't save the hot spring until last, he didn't know how else he'd get clean, and this was only the first round. Lambert had barely stepped away when Geralt's warm tongue swiped across Jaskier's stomach, licking away three orgasms worth of half-dry spend.

Behind, Eskel gently cleaned him with a wet cloth and wrapped the fur around him, petting his hair. “How does a nap in the library sound?”

“Amazing.” Jaskier woke up in the library an hour or so later, not really sure how he got there.

As soon as Jaskier came to his senses, one of those perfect Witcher bodies pressed against him. “What do you want from us?” Geralt's voice rumbled.

Jaskier took a moment to stretch and take stock, feeling any small aches or pains that might make certain activities difficult. Other than obvious soreness and the beginnings of exhaustion, there was nothing out of place, nothing to stop them from making the most of their day together. “I want to watch Eskel and Lambert. So far, I've only heard stories. Let's see if they live up to the hype.”

Jaskier and Geralt lazed on the couch while Eskel and Lambert struggled for dominance on the library rug. It wasn't like the way Geralt and Eskel wrestled, where the two were more or less evenly matched. Lambert seemed to know his fate from the beginning, but did all he could to wiggle out of Eskel's grasp, writhing and biting until finally, the other Witcher pinned him, fucking him with his wrists pinned together above his head. Geralt reached around to stroke Jaskier as they watched.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of skin slapping against skin, naps on the closest soft surface, and the surprisingly lovely late lunch Eskel threw together. Normally, Jaskier couldn't match the Witchers' veracious appetites, but after getting fucked on what felt like every surface in the castle, he had no trouble keeping up today.

Pleasantly sore, they ended the night in the hot spring. Instead of putting him to sleep, the steamy atmosphere and familiar scents woke Jaskier up. He spent the rest of the night doting on Geralt, Eskel and Lambert, washing their hair and cleaning away any accumulated sweat and come still sticking to their skin. Lambert had a sticky spot behind his ear and Jaskier didn't want to imagine how that happened.

With Geralt spread out on one of the benches, Jaskier climbed onto his back and worked at the few knots he found. After a while, he was just rubbing Geralt's back, enjoying the feel of taut skin and thick muscle under his fingers. “Tomorrow, we can all have a proper bath,” he mused aloud. “No more locked doors. And I can finally give you a good shave without worrying about slipping.” He tried once and only once. With Eskel's beautiful throat under his hands, Jaskier moved in to shave away the five o'clock shadow when a great crash from the evening hall sent the razor clattering to the stone floor.

Jaskier didn't hear the chuckle from the other room but Geralt did. He ground his teeth. “Letho,” he hissed. If Letho knew they were all in the spring and made noise to startle them, Jaskier couldn't trust himself with a razor this year, no way. Geralt took over the job, but they all missed Jaskier's soft hands against their throats, especially Lambert, who enjoyed a good shave more than the others.

“Sign me up,” Lambert called from his spot in the pool.

Jaskier stopped rubbing and lay himself across Geralt's back, listening to that slow, steady heart beating below him. “Mmm, today was lovely.”

“Good,” Geralt said. “But it's not over yet.”

He nudged Jaskier to his feet just as two familiar hands tugged at his hips, pulling him down to the floor. With a glint in his eye, Eskel moved Jaskier to straddle his hips, the bath sheet underneath him serving as soft padding for Jaskier's knees. Eskel's hard cock brushed against Jaskier's softer showing; it had been a _long_ day.

He considered for a moment while he ran his fingers along Jaskier's collar bone, around his neck and through his hair. “Do you think you have one more in you?” Eskel asked.

Jaskier laughed, but his cock gave a valiant twitch. The warm body underneath was already starting to get to him and Jaskier nodded. “Looks like I'm going to try.”

“Good,” Geralt's voice whispered in his ear as the White Wolf appeared behind him. Jaskier gasped, then gasped again when two slick fingers teased at his hole, testing and probing.

“Oh, more than that.” Jaskier hadn't been this relaxed in months, between their unwelcome house guest and constantly being on guard, he hadn't seen how much tension he had until it disappeared. His limbs felt loose and pliant, which was mostly from the plentiful orgasms rolling through his body all day, but at least partly down to their new Viper-free castle.

“That's the plan,” Geralt whispered, and before Jaskier had a chance to figure out exactly what he meant by _that_ , the blunt head of a cock rested against his hole. Sliding in like a hot knife through butter, Jaskier threw his head back.

“Mmm, yes please.” An odd thought tugged at his mind as that thick cock slid home and Jaskier tilted his hips. It appeared to be Eskel's wonderful cock, not Geralt's...

Below him, Eskel rolled his hips, thrusting gently. Yellow eyes sparkled up at him and Eskel bit his lip. “You're going to enjoy this.”

Jaskier smiled, but the feeling that he'd failed to notice something continued to build. “I always enjoy you.”

Eskel's soft smile turned up at the corners and he slid his tongue across his teeth, a bit of predator wolf sneaking through. “Now you can enjoy both of us.”

Geralt's large hand settled on his shoulder, pushing him forward a little. Eskel adjusted, holding him steady, very considerate, yes, but Jaskier was capable of—

A second head slid up next to Eskel's cock, testing the outside of Jaskier's hole. The muscles—too relaxed and tired to clench—gave way immediately and Geralt slowly pushed inside, his cock sliding across Eskel's.

The two Witchers groaned and held fast to him, growling words of love and satisfaction— “Fuck, Jaskier, you're so tight. I love feeling you—” “Melitele's tits, I can't believe you—you can take us both, fuck, Jaskier...” He heard their words, mostly, but the pleasant burn radiating through his hips and up his back slowly started to consume all of Jaskier's attention. His world narrowed down to the hands at his shoulders, holding him up, the arms around his waist, and the steady slide of two cocks, sharing him so intimately. Jaskier opened his mouth and no words came out, not even a moan dripping with pleasure. Another hand—a third one, belonging to his last Witcher—carded through his hair.

Geralt started to thrust gently and Jaskier's mind floated a little further away. A bright spark of pleasure lit up his dark night sky when Lambert's hand brushed his cock. Long, languid strokes matched the slow, yet driving push inside him and Jaskier started panting, every ache in his body coalescing into one warm wave of painful-pleasure moving through him. One moment, he felt it in his toes, only to have the pressure blooming in his chest a second later. It was everywhere and no where all at once. Jaskier threw his head back and finally moaned, his voice echoing off the walls of the cave. He fell into darkness with six hands wrapped around him.

~

The next morning, Jaskier woke with the dawn light to find himself in an empty bed. A quick survey of the room and he found them all still there, helping each other into their armor in front of the fire. Eskel saw him first, his face lighting up.

“He's awake.” And just like that, they all piled into bed on top of Jaskier, and the delicious aches from the previous day made themselves known, only slightly less nice this time around. More painful, less sexy.

Jaskier squirmed a little until they took the hint and backed off. But they all stayed close, six golden eyes on him. “Training?” he asked, the growl of sleep sticking to his voice.

“Yes. We'll get Vesemir to save you some breakfast,” Geralt said.

At the mention of breakfast, Jaskier stomach growled so loud, the bed shook. “Oh no, no more sleep for me, food sounds too good to pass up. And, I'm awake anyway.” He got out of bed and Eskel moved in to catch him. “I'm fine.” Jaskier batted him away and gave his muscles a test. Ass definitely sore, sitting wouldn't be fun, but everything else was more or less normal. It felt more like he'd climbed a mountain than anything else, pleasantly sore and a little tired. “I'm fine,” he said again and got dressed. “Come on, we eat, then I'll watch you training. It'll be more fun now.”

For the first time, Jaskier was able to keep up with the others, piling helping after helping onto his plate, replacing his lost stores of energy. Vesemir watched them all with a quirked eyebrow. After Jaskier buzzed through his third plate of eggs, honey toast and potatoes, Vesemir sighed. “Please tell me you didn't break anything. On him or in my keep.”

Jaskier shook his head. “I'm fine,” he said around a mouthful of potatoes. “Hungry.”

“Yes, I see that.”

Out in the courtyard, Vesemir rolled his eyes when Jaskier chose to stand rather than sit and watch, then leveled his gaze on Lambert. “We have an odd number now. Lambert, run the walls while Eskel and Geralt spar. Keep going until I say stop.” Lambert groaned and Geralt laughed at his brother's predicament, but Vesemir was ready for him. “It's your turn next, oh great White Wolf, as soon as he's done. Now get started, steel sword only, no Signs.”

Jaskier watched their training for the rest of the morning. It was much better this time around, while they fought seriously, trying to hone their skills for the coming spring, now he saw the grins and jovial little moments absent when Letho plagued their castle. Eskel and Geralt got too close to the walls during one of their bouts and Lambert leaned down to pull Geralt's hair, running away cackling before Geralt caught him.

When it was Geralt's turn on the walls, Eskel and Lambert told jokes between strikes. “Did you hear the one about the horse who walked into a tavern?” Lambert asked, attacking with a swift jab of his sword.

Eskel parried and returned the jab. “If it's the one about the long face, yes, you've told me that one. It's stupid.”

In true younger brother fashion, Lambert shot back, “Your face is stupid.”

Eskel chuckled. “Well, you've got something on your face.” Eskel surged forward, pushing Lambert's sword out of the way and slapping him playfully across the cheek. Jaskier caught a quick flash of bliss in Lambert's eyes (he was good at recognizing it, he'd seen it so much this winter) before their fighting resumed in earnest.

After lunch, Jaskier ordered them all back up to the room and crowded Lambert against the wall. “I remember now... you like it when I slap you.”

Jaskier's soft hand came singing through the air, cracking across Lambert's cheek. His lips parted, eyes growing dark, and the other Witchers smelled his lust perfuming the air. Lambert met Jaskier's eyes and licked his lips. “Again.” Jaskier slapped Lambert until he came in his smalls, then gathered him onto the bed, pressing kisses and soothing salve to hot red skin.

That night in the hot spring, Geralt climbed on top of Jaskier again while the others held him in place, unable to move or even touch Geralt as he lowered onto his cock. It was like they'd been set free for the first time that season, and they intended to make the most of it. No matter where they ended up or what they were doing, Jaskier let the satisfaction of each moment saturate his mind. This was the winter they should've had, it was just a little late this year.

* * *

The Lark and the Wolves

Three brother wolves met in a glade,

Gathered to speak of their glorious crusades,

I met a bear, said the first,

And his cock did quench my glorious thirst.

'Twas a griffin for me, the youngest spake,

he fucked me raw until my legs did quake,

The White Wolf stayed silent, for his tale was best,

He gathered his brothers closely abreast.

Such pleasures I have found, my brothers dear,

A beautiful lark with feathers of silk,

His voice is a pleasure for all to hear,

I'll never find another of his ilk.

What did he do to make him such a prize?

The young wolf asked with doubtful eyes,

I've seen many larks here and there,

They speak nonsense as they fly through the air.

My lark is beautiful, my lark is fair,

Blue gems in his eyes and a voice so sweet,

But there's far more to see 'neath all his flair,

Come meet him now, it'll be a treat.

Through the sky the lark did streak,

Down to the wolf pack who him did seek,

Hair of chestnut and eyes like sin,

Down to their den, they invited him in.

He sang so sweetly to the wolves in turn,

Soon, for him, their hearts did burn,

They fucked him raw, no more could he ask,

And in the evening they shared a cask.

Drunk on wine, drunk on love,

They lay together with only the stars above,

Yes, White Wolf, the brothers did say,

Your lark is fine, we will have him to stay.

Their den was warm from that day forth,

The fire of love burned in the cold north,

He fucked them all winter, he'd fuck them all year,

For each wolf did the lark now hold dear.

Heed the words this bard doth speak,

A fool believes love makes one weak,

But three wolves with their lark in tow,

Are stronger still than any man may know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I wrote a ballad for the first fic, I thought I'd write a poem for this one, just to round out the series a little more. I am very bad at rhyming but the poem is kind of funny, which was my goal.


	7. Chapter 7 Part 2 - A Lark of All Seasons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heart in his throat, Jaskier ran down the hill, his mouth moving before his brain thought of what words to say. “Stop! Stop! By the order of Julian Alfred Pankratz, I vouch for this Witcher!”
> 
> All eyes turned to Jaskier, the shouts dying away, stones falling from shaking hands. One set of angry yellow eyes found him and Jaskier did his best to keep it together. Geralt's words came back to him, “If you see Letho, and you're traveling alone, run.”
> 
> Everything in Jaskier screamed at him to run, pleaded with him to do as Geralt warned. He willed himself to stay put. Couldn't very well vouch for a Witcher one second, then run from that same Witcher the next, now could he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've now come to Part 2. In Part 1, I mostly showed the events of one winter, part 2 shows stuff happening outside of winter and a few years down the road. Not many years, I think this verse maybe covers a decade... maybe. Jaskier is still sprightly and healthy.
> 
> This chapter is where the "slutty Jaskier" tag comes into play, and I'm using "slut" in a positive way. Jaskier likes having sex and there's nothing wrong with that. There are a few mentions of Jaskier's past lovers here, but that's it. (And all of Jaskier's past lovers are beefy boys, he has a type... and I like writing linebacker sized men. I think this fandom will forgive me.)
> 
> Thank you to everyone who continues to read and comment, you're helping me keep it together more than you all know.

When all was said and done, winter ended peacefully and no one ended up dead. As they made their way down the mountain, Jaskier started to wonder if they'd all worked themselves up over nothing. He made the mistake of mentioning this to Geralt one night.

Geralt's arms tightened around him. The winter chill was still fading from the air and sharing body heat was just one of the reasons they used the same bedroll. Geralt scented the air a little—searching for an explanation as to why the fuck Jaskier would bring up Letho again—and shook his head. “No, never underestimate Letho.” Worry creased his brow for the first time in a month. “I didn't tell you the full story because I didn't want you to panic. Letho isn't just a Kingslayer, he's taken contracts—on humans and other Witchers.”

Jaskier rubbed his face against Geralt's chest, in comfort and to steal some warmth. They were a long way from the hot spring and the cold had already seeped back into his bones, oncoming spring be damned. “Vesemir said there was bad blood between you two.”

Geralt went quiet for a moment, staring off into the distance like the fire in front of them might give him answers. He didn't say anything for a long time and Jaskier almost fell asleep. Then, a soft, even voice whispered. “I don't want to explain. Please trust me: Letho is dangerous, probably more so now that he thinks we kicked him out of Kaer Morhen. If you see him, and you're traveling alone, _run_.”

Every season, there were any number of reasons Geralt and Jaskier had to part ways. Late summer, Jaskier went to the festival at Oxenfurt, leaving Geralt to take The Path alone. Or, perhaps Geralt followed a contract he knew to be too dangerous for company—a striga, or similarly difficult beast—and sent Jaskier on his way, promising to find him again soon.

Parting was always difficult and Jaskier would pull Geralt down on top of him, whispering words of love as the Witcher fucked him so tenderly, Jaskier silently composed about the experience. The Wolf as Soft as a Lamb... or something. Those kinds of ballads only played in his mind, he'd never share them with anyone, not even Geralt.

With the lingering smell of Geralt's kisses and spend across his skin, Jaskier headed through Redania, his preferred stomping grounds. The Redanians were partial to Jaskier's songs and soaps, and he fit in well at court, it didn't take him long to find a tavern looking for a bard to play for the night.

Jaskier tried out some new material before lapsing back into the old classics—Toss a Coin, and a little ditty about Geralt and a werewolf he wrote last summer—and the coin soon sang at his feet. “Thank you, thank you!” he called to the crowd. “I'll be back with more songs later, but for now: barkeep! Some refreshment!” The bar maid delivered him an ale and a bowl of stew (the saucy wink was a bonus).

Jaskier settled at a table to eat his meal, allowing the atmosphere of the tavern to settle over him. Geralt was of two minds about places like this: on the one hand, he appreciated a good ale, good food and a good round of cards. On the other, as a Witcher, people were disinclined to give him their good ale, they liked to spit in his food, and everyone tried to cheat him at cards, which was their mistake. Finding a tavern or pub with tolerable company was a stroke of luck, and a bad crowd with angry, twitchy guests soon sent Geralt up to their room to grumble.

But Jaskier loved taverns, no matter the energy. He loved over hearing little snippets of conversation, tales of love and betrayal, the exquisite and the mundane, all living together in the same room. Most of his better (non-Witcher) songs came from stories he over heard in a pub just like this one. He cast his ear around, listening to the conversations as they poured out of the assembled patrons.

The couple by the window were hiding from the girl's mother. She didn't agree to their betrothal and they were stealing time to plan to run away together—a love song in the making if Jaskier ever saw it. Three old men played cards at another table, one of them passing an ace to the other under the table. Judging by the lack of actual betting, the men were probably old friends who cheated each other to pass the time, especially with no real stakes involved. Jaskier turned his ears to the tavern, trying to pick up conversation more than mere sights.

“Nasty business down there... I've never heard of a Witcher getting offed like that.” Jaskier's head swirled at the words. Two rough young boys (stable hands judging by the straw and manure clinging to their boots) weren't trying to keep their voices down, probably wanted to spread gossip they overheard, make them feel like they knew something no one else did... empty posturing for them, no self respecting lass would fall for it, but good for Jaskier.

“Who told you?” the second boy asked.

“The poof with the big bay.” Ha, Jaskier was right, stable hands. “Said he rode her all night to get out of the way of the mob. And, he said a Witcher got caught up in it all. Down near Letten.”

A sucking pain punched the air from Jaskier's lungs, making his legs queasy even as he sat. A Witcher in danger, they said nothing about white hair—Geralt was unique enough in that respect that, should a town turn on him, that detail would definitely make it into the story—but that was only one name off Jaskier's list. Lambert, Eskel... he couldn't imagine either of his strong, capable wolves felled by something as trivial as a mob.

Yet another, deeper poison spread through Jaskier's veins. _Down near Letten_. Letten, the seat of the county Lettenhove... Jaskier's home town. He had to go, had to see who it was and if they were still alive, he prayed this nameless Witcher made it through whatever the mob had done to him. Jaskier just had to get over his own hang ups. Yes, right, an injured or captured or possible dead Witcher was more important than his emotional family baggage.

He left after his meal and started towards home—ah, no, not home, towards Letten. If anything, Kaer Morhen was home, Geralt was home, not that big empty house he hated down to his bones. After he crossed the Pontar, getting closer and closer to the town, more rumors found him.

“The Witcher is dead, already buried, put up a terrible fight...”

“I heard they threw him into a cave, didn't want him hauntin' the local cemetery.”

As it became more and more obvious Jaskier was on the trail of a corpse, he thought about turning back. He couldn't offer aid to a dead Witcher, what was the point of raking himself over the emotional coals of his family home? No, he needed to go, he had to make sure no one made off with the medallion. Geralt and the others mentioned it once, the ritual of bringing home the lost Witcher's medallion for the funeral pyre if there was no body to burn. Jaskier wasn't the most ideal pall bearer, but he'd find that medallion and make sure it got to the right place, it's proper place, not on some idiot's mantle as he lied about killing a Witcher. The idea that it still might be one of _his_ Witchers sat silently in the back of his mind, waiting to rear it's ugly head...

The morning he arrived in Letten, Jaskier took the long way around. This time of year, his parents were usually at court with his cousin, but one could never be too careful... A quick glance over the large property and Jaskier glimpsed sheets thrown over the furniture, the carriage house closed up, and only a few servants milling around the place. With the chance of seeing his parents finally squashed, Jaskier turned his attention to the task at hand: find that medallion.

He walked towards the center of town, the coast line at his back, barely visible over the rolling fields, but it was there. All of Kerack was near the coast, Lettenhove the furthest away, the bread basket of Kerack. It was a small-ish village, mostly there to support the large sweeping fields that produced most of Kerack's grain, and the stupid manor he grew up in. The locals could burn the place down for all he cared, now might be a good time, with the family gone, they could say it was a lightning strike in the dry heat of early summer...

“Get your fucking hands off me!”

The angry shout pierced through the idyllic country air, snapping Jaskier to attention. He knew that voice... He picked up the pace, heading towards the garrison just outside of town. Letten was small, but it still held the county seat—a dusty court house that only saw action in autumn when everyone bickered over the harvest—and the troop garrison held both army and the town guard, and it was the largest gathering place aside from the tavern.

Jaskier crested over the top of the hill and looked down the road. A crowd was gathered outside the garrison's gates, guardsmen pushing for calm while an angry man struggled and spat at the center of it all... a man with a very familiar scar on his bald head.

Fucking Letho.

Heart in his throat, Jaskier ran down the hill, his mouth moving before his brain thought of what words to say. “Stop! Stop! By the order of Julian Alfred Pankratz, I vouch for this Witcher!”

All eyes turned to Jaskier, the shouts dying away, stones falling from shaking hands. One set of angry yellow eyes found him and Jaskier did his best to keep it together. Geralt's words came back to him, “If you see him, and you're traveling alone, _run_.”

Everything in Jaskier screamed at him to run, pleaded with him to do as Geralt warned. He willed himself to stay put. Couldn't very well vouch for a Witcher one second, then run from that same Witcher the next, now could he?

“Alright, you lot, you heard Master Julian. Get out of here!” another familiar voice—this one much more pleasant—called to the crowd.

The few guards started pushing everyone away, back towards the town proper, urging them to return to their business up the road. Warm brown eyes found Jaskier's and a man in a well worn uniform made his way over. “Hello, Master Julian,” the Captain of the guard said. “Been a long time since you've been home.”

“Hello, Petyr,” Jaskier whispered. They both glanced back at the remaining guardsmen as they detained Letho for the moment, at least until the townsfolk got a good distance away. “Thank you for your help.”

“Well, I don't want another mob, do I?” He pressed his lips together and looked Jaskier up and down, trying for 'appraising' but falling into 'adoring.' “You look... well. The road treating you alright?”

“Yes, it is.” Despite the light armor, Jaskier saw a flush traveling up the back of Petyr's neck. He tried to school his face into a pleasant, yet bland, mask of civility, no need to eye up the Captain of the town guard when he had real important business to ask about.

But before Jaskier had a chance to ask Petyr about the first mob, Letho shoved the guardsmen away. “Some town guards,” he spat. “Takes a weaselly little whore to get you to do your job.”

Petyr turned and slammed Letho across the jaw. While a normal human didn't want to haul off and slug a Witcher, Petyr was a large man, his father was a miller and he and his brothers grew up lugging fifty pound bags of flour to market. There were few men Jaskier thought might hold their own against a Witcher, and Petyr was on that list.

“You show some respect, Witcher,” he spat. “Master Julian may have saved your life.” Letho spit blood into the dirt and fell silent. With Letho somewhat in check, Petyr turned back to Jaskier. “You vouch for him, Master Julian? Are you certain?”

Jaskier sighed and shook his head as Letho continued to glare at him, over large hands twitching at his side, probably itching for one of the blades the guards took from him. “Unfortunately, yes. I came to town on business and I fear he's here for the same reason.”

Petyr's eyes went wide. “Juli—uh, Master Julian, what possible business could you have with a Witcher?”

Letho snorted. “You mean he doesn't know?”

He ignored Letho, turning the power of his eyes on to Petyr. Geralt and the others had told him many, many times, his eyes were so divine, they could wring sins from a saint. He just hoped they worked for him now. “I guess you haven't heard, I made the acquaintance of a Witcher several years ago. I helped make the stories of his adventures legendary. I have quite a few popular ballads out there in the world now. It's made me a good living.”

“And you're... you're safe? Living that life?” Petyr's hand twitched away from his side before he pushed himself back to regimental form. Jaskier still caught the movement. That same young miller's boy, reaching out to the handsome Viscount's son with the beautiful eyes and sweet lips.

Jaskier nodded. “Safe enough.” Petyr took one last look at Letho and ordered his men back on patrol. Their youthful affair seemed like a life time ago, but Petyr was always a good boy, now a good man, he trusted Jaskier. “Speaking of that first mob, has another Witcher been through here recently? Maybe one who wasn't so lucky?”

“Yes.” Petyr cast an eye back to Letho, who was suddenly very interested in the conversation. “About a month back, we hired him to clear out the dead men hunting along the shores.”

“Drowners,” Letho hissed.

Petyr nodded. “Yes, drowners. We try to clean them out before their numbers become too much to handle. We needed help this time, sent him ahead to the most hard hit villages up the coast. I'm not sure what happened, rumors are just that—rumor—and nothing can truly be verified. We believe he ran afoul of the King's army. He came back to be paid and a mob attacked just over the bridge outside of town. They were too organized to be farmers, probably soldiers who covered their insignia to hide the crime.”

“Cowards.” Letho spat into the dirt.

“For once, I agree with you,” Jaskier said. “Please, Petyr, go on.”

Petyr shook his head. “That's about the tale of it. I don't care for Witchers much, but no one deserves a death like that for doing an honest job.”

“Do you know what happened to his medallion?” Jaskier asked. “It's a... sort of ritual, among Witchers. When one dies, they collect his medallion. I'm looking to return it to them.” He cast an eye to Letho. “I think that's why we're both here.”

“Medallion... yes, I think I saw it.” A dark look crossed his face. “And I think I know who took it. I can get it for you, if he hasn't melted it already. Where can I find you?”

Oh, he'd hoped to be out of town before nightfall. Petyr had a look on his face, a determined sort of set to his jaw, which probably meant he'd knock down a few doors tonight before recovering the medallion for Jaskier. “I'll be at the manor,” Jaskier said.

“I'll call upon you when I've found it.”

Jaskier turned to walk back up the road and Letho fell into step behind him. He paused and glared over his shoulder. “You seriously want to come with me?”

Letho's lip twitched, like he was suppressing a snarl. “He's delivering the medallion to you? Then fuck yes, I'll be wherever you are. It's my job to bring it back, not yours.”

“I will only deliver the medallion to Master Julian,” Petyr spat. He stepped closer to Jaskier, his voice low. “Are you sure he's safe to have around? If anything happens to you...”

Jaskier smiled, chuckling a little. “Don't worry, he knows it's not worth it to hurt me.” _Because they'd comb the earth for my killer and make him pay_. Letho's eyes met his before falling away as he had the same thought. No, Jaskier was too much trouble to kill, Letho didn't want the entire School of the Wolf on his ass for the rest of eternity.

“I'll come to the manor when I have news.”

Jaskier bid Petyr farewell and continued down the road, Letho playing the part of his brooding shadow. Letho followed him through town (snarling at any villagers who dared look at him) all the way to the manor.

Jaskier stopped at the front gate and turned around. “Before we go inside, you should probably know: I left home because I hated my family, not this place. Most every man in town will quickly defend me if you try anything, and the house manager is a man named Briss, who is wider than you by half. Hurt me, touch me, bring me any small amount of discomfort, and the Wolves will simply be the start of the line to kill you.”

Letho's flat, empty eyes swept over him and his lip curled into a sneer. “How do you breed such loyalty? Did you sleep with the guard too, the house manager?”

“Yes, actually,” Jaskeir responded brightly. Letho's mouth fell open and Jaskier took a moment to savor the truly stupid look on that usually malevolent face. “In fact, I'd say at least half the men in this town are aware of my charms—most of the women too. That's why they like me, I'm nice to them, and I showed them a good time when we were young. Now, they're nice to me when I need it.”

“So I was right.” Letho's sneer returned with a vengeance, as if he wanted to chase away the memory of his gobsmacked confusion. “You are a whore.”

“No, I'm a slut,” Jaskier said and pushed the gates open. “Whores get paid. I sleep with people because I like it.” He walked through the gates and headed inside, greeting the gardener with a friendly wave while Letho just... stood there. Staring. Shaking himself a little, he followed the bard into the house.

“Master Julian!” Briss greeted, bowing a little before sliding his eyes to Letho. “Will you and your... guest be here long?”

“Hopefully not. I'm waiting for word from Petyr, he should come by late tonight or early morning. We'll be off after that.” He cast a look at Letho and wrinkled his nose. “I was going to ask for a bath but I think he needs it more. I can take care of it if you're busy.”

Letho sneered. “No way you're touching me.”

Briss' eyes snapped to him, the courtly veneer of the dutiful servant vanishing. Given his size, Letho guessed former army, came to serve in the house of a Lord or whatever when he wanted a quiet life once more. “I will take care of it, Master Julian, and your guest will be good enough to hold his tongue, lest I take it from him.”

“Thank you Briss, I'll make sure he's civil from now on.” Civil might be pushing it... here's hoping Petyr showed up sooner rather than later.

Briss disappeared to take care of the bath and Jaskier rounded on Letho. “Why are you like this? I save you from getting the tar beat out of you by a mob, and you yell at people who are trying to help?”

“ _Why_ are you trying to help?” Letho snapped back. “Why are you here searching for a medallion? It's not your job to bring it back.”

“Well, someone has to!” Jaskier shouted. “How was I supposed to know you'd be here too! I just followed rumors of a dead Witcher, hoping it wasn't one of mine!”

Letho snarled and stalked away, following the smell of hot water to the bath. Jaskier rolled his eyes at his fucking luck and stomped upstairs to his room. He didn't know what he smelled like (other than sweat and road dirt) but anger had replaced any trace of fear he ever had for Letho. Now, all Jaskier wanted was that damn medallion and Letho out of his life forever.

His room looked more or less the same... every speck of personality scrubbed from it, just like when he lived there. Any new hobby he picked up, whether it was fit for a royal or not, Jaskier's parents didn't want a trace of it in the house. Fencing—leave the sword in the barn, no scratches on the floor. Horse riding—keep your riding clothes in with the laundry, boots too, not a speck of dirt in this house, young man. They cared more about the appearance of their house and the impression it left on visiting dignitaries, than the happiness of their own son.

They especially didn't like his lute. The first time Jaskier's eyes fell on the fine instrument in the shop window, his father balked. “No. It does not befit your station or your gender, I have a _son_ , not a daughter. And I won't have racket in my house.”

Luckily, Jaskier was _friendly_ with the shop owner's son and bought it in the dead of night, Carson's hand clinging to his as he handed the coin over. “Keep it here for me, will you?” he whispered, their chests pressed close together against the chill of the night air. “If my father finds it, he'll smash it. Besides, I'll get to see you more.”

Carson nodded and stole a quick kiss before rushing back inside with Jaskier's new lute in his hands. Jaskier came by every few days to practice while Carson tended his father's shop. Whenever there was a lull, the bright eyed shop boy came to the back room to listen, when they were older, he stopped to sample Jaskier's sweet mouth, fingers in chestnut hair as he thrust deep between pretty lips. Mmm, he missed Carson, he should stop by while he was in town... Of course, after he went to Oxenfurt and had enough real training under his belt (not simply strumming until it sounded nice) Jaskier set out into the world, and well, he knew what happened after that.

While his room was so clear of personality as to be indistinguishable from any guest room, it was still his bed. Jaskier flopped down for a moment and remembered how fond he was of this bed, it was soft and plush to be sure, felt lovely under his knees when he was sixteen and let a younger, devastatingly handsome Briss make love to him the night before he left for the army. In a house so filled with loneliness and anger, Jaskier still found nice memories to cling to.

He sat up just in time to see a freshly bathed Letho walk through his door. Wonderful. “You know, you're not supposed to put your dirty armor back on after the bath,” he said. “It defeats the purpose of getting clean.”

Letho scowled. Jaskier didn't know if he had any other expression. “I'm not wearing any frilly thing from you. I'm not one of your pets, you can't dress me like a doll.”

“Who said I wanted to?” Jaskier spat. Oh yes, there was no fear now, he was too frustrated with damn pigheaded Letho to get properly afraid. Letho's nostrils flared, scenting the air and Jaskier rolled his eyes. “Sorry, your powers don't work on me anymore. You're annoying, not scary.”

“I can be scary.”

Letho took a menacing step forward and Jaskier snapped. “Fucking why? Why do you care if I'm afraid of you?” He stood up from the bed and paced an irritated circle around the room, taking care to stay out of Letho's reach. “What does it matter? You pissed off Geralt and the others, which didn't do you any favors last winter, so I can't see why you'd even mess with me like that!”

Letho's lip twitched and Jaskier saw a brief flicker of light in his eyes. “You spend all winter sneaking up on me, yet I'm the evil monster terrorizing the wolves' poor fuck toy? How is that my fault?”

Jaskier mouth dropped open. “Me. Sneak up. On you.” He shook himself, letting the insanity of that statement really sink in. “You're a _Witcher_ —silent, stealthy, trained to mute your own damn heart beat. I am a bard—loud by trade. My shoes squeak, some of my clothes have literal bells on them, and I bloody fucking sing wherever I bloody fucking go! I play the lute as I walk! How do I sneak up on you?”

“You don't smell... right,” Letho growled. He scented the air again. “You smell like _them_ , even now. In winter, whenever I walked into a fucking room, I didn't know you were there until I saw you. I don't like being surprised. The only thing that made you smell different was your fear.” The small light in his eyes snuffed out again and that predator smile returned. It was different than Eskel or Lambert's wolf smiles, with the little playful gleam in their eyes when they meant to ravish Jaskier, or Geralt's when on the trail of a particularly satisfying beast. Letho's eyes were flat and empty, cold once again, an animal baring its teeth before striking. “And your fear has a delicious stink.”

“That doesn't work on me anymore,” Jaskier said, voice flat. “I smell like them, so what? My heart still gives me away, I'm not completely hidden from you, and you know it. You hate what my smell _means_. They love me, I'm a part of them, and if a human can live so closely with Witchers, that makes you the odd man out. They stopped buying into that con you made and then bought yourselves—they can feel, they can love. I don't think you can.” Letho's brow tensed and Jaskier shook his head. He was right, of course he was right, there was nothing left inside Letho, probably never was to begin with. “The world you were made for is dying, and I feel for you, I really do. The others are learning to move with the new world. Take a hint from them, or get out of the way.”

Letho was silent for a long time. The light in his eyes never reappeared. Finally, he stepped back over the threshold of Jaskier's room. “Is there a room in this shit hole where I can stay?”

Jaskier shrugged. “Find an empty chamber, I don't care which.”

With one last scowl, Letho disappeared down the hall and Jaskier slammed his door shut. He meant to sleep, he wanted to sleep, but the argument left him too wired and a little on edge. His eyes skated over the bed, maybe if he lay down, the soft sheets would lull him to sleep... hmm, sheets. Jaskier remembered a set of blue silk...

He opened the door again and walked down to the linen closet. The usual frilly duvets and tasseled winter curtains met him and Jaskier pushed through all the fussy fabric, so decedent and over the top, no one needed this much... “Ah!” He smiled to himself when he spotted them, at the back of the linen closet, his favorite set of blue silk sheets. He had to climb up the shelves to get them, which meant his parents would never notice their absence. Tucking the silk under his arm, Jaskier smiled to himself. The desire for silk on their winter bed wasn't just pillow talk, Jaskier fully intended to buy Geralt a fine set of silk sheets, and now he didn't have to.

He folded the sheets into his pack, it was a tight squeeze, but more than worth it. Dreams of the satisfaction on Geralt's face filled his mind and Jaskier finally managed to fall asleep in his accursed parents' house.

Later that night, Petyr appeared with a familiar medallion dangling from his fingers. The viper embossed on the metal all but confirmed Jaskier's suspicions. From what Geralt told him, the School of the Viper taught their Witchers a severe sort of independence—they were all in competition with each other for work, there was no incentive to play nice—but all schools were clear on the rites of death. Bring the body, or the medallion home.

Jaskier held the cool metal in his hand, staring at the vicious snake looking back. “Who had it?”

“They have been dealt with. That's all I care to say.”

“Fair enough.” Jaskier pocketed it and smiled at Petyr. “Thank you. You did me a great favor. If I can ever repay it—”

Petyr shook his head, waving Jaskier's words away. “I've owed you far more for quite some time. You think your father made me Captain of the guard? Briss talked you up to his former commander, who came to town looking to expand the garrison to house more soldiers. He saw me training and said I showed promise, swung a promotion my way. If it wasn't for you, I wouldn't be where I am now. You owe me nothing, Julian.”

His eyes crinkled at the corners and Jaskier's heart skipped a beat. Oh yes, he definitely remembered what he saw in Petyr all those years ago... “Do you... have anyone? Wife, family? Are you happy?” The day Jaskier's father finally died, he'd have to come back to town to deal with his newly inherited title, but that didn't mean Jaskier forsook everyone in said town. He still cared about Petyr, Briss, Carson... all the boys he whiled away the time with until he finally made his escape.

A blissful smile crossed Petyr's face and he sighed, a sound dripping with contentment. “I do. Magda, the baker's girl. We got married last autumn.”

“Good, that's so good.” Jaskier remembered Magda, she was a sweet girl, too smart by half. As children, they ran around town, stealing sweet cakes from her father and running into the fields to make flower crowns for each other. When they got older, she let Jaskier hide from his father under her skirts, his fingers showing his gratitude. “I'm happy for you.”

“Thank you. And you?” Petyr's eyes flashed up the stairs, checking for Briss or Letho, Jaskier wasn't sure. “This Witcher in town, he's not—”

“Oh no.” Jaskier barely kept the revulsion from his voice. “There's a different... he's very nice. I swear, most Witchers are, you just have to get to know them.”

“Hmm.” Petyr nodded. “I know how you, uh, get to know people, Julian. You are careful, right? Not putting yourself in any danger?”

“No danger. Well, nothing actually serious.” He'd been kidnapped once, held for ransom by a group of bandits too stupid to understand the rumors about Witchers were only mostly untrue. Geralt showed them the error of their ways before berating Jaskier for going out to the stables by himself. “Trust me, I'm in good hands.” _Several_ , he didn't add.

“Good.” Petyr nodded. “Good night then, don't take another decade to come visit.”

Petyr retreated into the night and Jaskier closed the door, leaning against it and studying the medallion once again. He tried, for a moment, to feel the power in it. There had to be spell work involved, if it detected beasts and magic. Maybe you had to be a Witcher to feel it working.

With a sigh, he went back upstairs, shouting down the corridor, “Letho! I have it! I'm clearing out at first light!” He placed the medallion on one of the fiddly hall tables and returned to his room, giving one last shout, “If you're still here when I wake up, don't be!”

The next morning, the medallion was gone from the hall table and Briss confirmed that the Witcher left before the cock crowed. He loaded Jaskier up with food for his journey, throwing him every manner of sad look. Jaskier smiled and placed a soft kiss on Briss' rough cheek, whispering his thanks. As he made his way down the road, towards anywhere that wasn't his home town, Jaskier imagined Geralt's shouts when he found out about Letho's visit...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote a few nice things about the rolling fields of his home town before I remembered Kerack is by the coast. Oopse. Let's just pretend this is the inner most part of Kerack. Since they don't say too much about Lettenhove anywhere I've seen, I made an executive decision: the county is called Lettenhove, the town is Letten. I put it as a small town because, it's always kind of weird that no one seems to know Jaskier is a Viscount. I read this as: he's a small country royal, not very well known in bigger cities. Small country royal, small town.
> 
> I also take the view that Jaskier wasn't happy with his family and read that as emotional neglect (he's real thirsty for attention, it kind of tracks for me). I've seen other interpretations about how people read his past, but this is mine.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Come to Kaer Morhen this winter. I'll set Lambert straight.” Jaskier took a cautious step towards Coën and dropped his voice to a whisper. “I'm of the belief that everyone deserves love.”
> 
> Coën smiled a little. “Even Witchers?”
> 
> “Especially Witchers. I'll see you this winter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got really, really long and I had to split it. At first I only wanted one Coën chapter, but there are two now, which is also fine. Coën is kind of a minor Witcher character, and all I really found on him was that he helped train Ciri. The Witcher wiki says he's from the School of the Griffin (even though other lore sources say his school is never identified) so I went with Griffin. School of the Griffin is very old fashioned, they're compared to knights a lot, which was a nice image for me, they're also the only school that will hunt dragons. And, since this isn't canon compliant, Coën's first trip to Kaer Morhen isn't to train Ciri... it's to fuck Lambert.
> 
> Also, I slightly abuse the definition of "favor" in this chapter (and the next). It's supposed to imply a knightly favor, like from a lady before a battle... but they're using it as a euphemism for sex. Because I decided that sounded nice.

While Jaskier wanted to see his new quarters as a sign of his prestige, the presence of Valdo Marx did dampen the fun a little. As a sought after performer at the annual Oxenfurt Festival of Music and Dance, Jaskier was afforded nicer rooms in the form of the bachelor professors' quarters, which he had to share with the other headliners at the festival... including Valdo.

He and Valdo had buried the hatchet a few years back (there was never any _real_ conflict between them, sniping and spreading rumors, mostly) but since Valdo was responsible for the lion's share of the fight, he tried to make up for it by being extra nice and considerate now, and there was only so much Valdo Marx one could take.

The day before the festival, Jaskier reviewed his set list while gently strumming his lute. A frantic knock on his chamber door pulled him out of his thoughts. “Yes?”

The door swung open and bounced against the wall with a bang. Valdo rushed in, chest heaving, face flushed with panic. “Jaskier, there's a Witcher here to see you! He just knocked on the door and asked for you.”

“Yes, Valdo,” Jaskier said very slowly, patiently. “That's generally how one inquires after a resident of a house. What's he look like?”

Valdo blinked. “What's he look like? Damned if I know, Jaskier, I couldn't get past the eyes and the giant swords!”

Well, Letho knew better than to ever darken Jaskier's door again, and after waiting this long, Geralt and Lambert would've pushed through the house in search of him. Eskel was the only one with any sort of manners, it had to be him. Jaskier flipped his hand at Valdo. “Let him in, I'll see him. He's probably in town for the festival, wanted to wish me luck.” A small smile threatened to break into a full on grin. He and Eskel definitely had similar tastes when it came to fine poetry, and the fact that the Witcher wanted to see him perform was very sweet.

Valdo vanished and heavy boots made their way down the hall. “He's in h-here,” Valdo's voice shook. “Go right in.”

“Thank you.”

Jaskier whirled around. He... he didn't recognize that voice. A Witcher with a bald head and a large dark beard stopped at the threshold of the door, back straight, chin held parallel with the floor in an almost knightly posture. Valdo's much lighter footsteps scampered away down the hall and Jaskier heard his chamber door slam shut.

Jaskier had never seen a Witcher like this one, which really was saying something. Pock scars dotted his skin in some spots, and his eyes weren't so much gold, more a sickly yellow-green, the whites shot through with blood. Were these the remnants of a potion? If so, Jaskier had never seen Geralt look like this before...

Jaskier climbed to his feet and smiled, let no one accuse him of being a poor host. “Hello, can I help you?”

“Jaskier the Bard?” he asked, his voice rough, but somehow low and melodic, like a soft waterfall over jagged rocks.

“Yes, I'm Jaskier. Who might you be?”

“My name is Coën, School of the Griffin. May I come in?”

“Please.” Jaskier watched this unknown Witcher cross into the room and stop, standing exactly one step into the space he just requested to enter. That knightly posture was still in place, and it was actually knightly, Jaskier was sure of it, too artful and deliberate to be simple army-like training. He didn't know much about the School of the Griffin, but manners seemed to matter with this one.

Those yellow-green eyes settled on Jaskier for just a second too long before Coën spoke. “My apologies for barging in like this. I understand you have a performance tomorrow. I'll be brief. I crossed paths with Lambert recently and told him I planed to stay at Kaer Morhen this winter. He and I are _close_.”

“Ah.” Jaskier raked his eyes over Coën once more, seeing him anew. The way his voice softened at Lambert's name, the slightly cagey use of 'close,' and the Griffin School, it all fell together. “So you're the Griffin they keep telling me about.”

Coën cleared his throat and quickly closed the door behind him before resuming their conversation. Jaskier couldn't be sure, but it looked like a slight blush bloomed above his beard. “Yes. I've stayed at Kaer Morhen with Lambert before.”

Jaskier chuckled. “I've heard the stories. Tell me, how does such a polite and proper Witcher like you let Lambert mount him in a hallway?” It might be hitting a little below the belt, but Jaskier had to know. The stories he'd heard did not line up with the man in front of him.

Coën cleared his throat again and shuffled a little, eyes dropping for a second. “You know Lambert. He can be... persuasive.”

“Ha, yes, that he can.”

All levity disappeared and those strange sickly eyes fell on Jaskier again. “I told Lambert I wanted to come this year, and he said he had to ask you. I don't know you from any other man on the Continent, so why does Lambert need your permission to have a guest this winter?”

“He doesn't,” Jaskier said. “I don't know if he told you—he and I are also _close_ —but I'm not keeping him from other friends.”

Coën closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh, his head dropping forward a little. When he lifted his head, Jaskier saw that same fire inside him, the kind they all had deep down, the burning to feel what they knew wasn't allowed. It was a light Jaskier pulled from the others and nurtured as much as possible, and here it was again. “My school is gone,” Coën said softly, voice low and cracked. “Lambert and I are around the same age, we... fit together well. If he won't have me—”

“I don't know what's going through Lambert's head, I can assure you, he put it there himself,” Jaskier said. It was all he could do not to reach out and touch Coën, the Witcher he just met. The pain in his voice almost did Jaskier in, pain over and from Lambert, who should know better than to spurn companionship. Had he learned nothing from Jaskier? Had he already forgotten their first winter together when his body cried out for love? And he pushed away another who looked to be in the same sad situation.

“Come to Kaer Morhen this winter. I'll set him straight.” Jaskier took a cautious step towards Coën and dropped his voice to a whisper. “I'm of the belief that everyone deserves love.”

Coën smiled a little. “Even Witchers?”

“Especially Witchers. I'll see you this winter.”

Coën stayed for the first day of the festival, wandering the tents and stalls, shocking a few people but mostly keeping to himself. Jaskier talked to him when he had a chance and they swapped stories of The Path. Coën marveled a little at Jaskier's stories. “I can't believe the things Geralt lets you get away with,” he laughed.

“Sometimes, I can't believe he puts up with me in the first place.” He bought Coën another pint and left for his last set of the night.

Before Coën took off the next morning, Jaskier found him at the festival and pushed a small bottle into his hand. “Beard oil. If I know Witchers, you probably aren't taking care of that great beast properly. There will be more where that came from this winter. It's a specialty of mine.”

Coën nodded and tucked the bottle away. “I look forward to it.”

~

Third time seemed to be the charm as Jaskier managed to stay conscious this winter and reached the gates of Kaer Morhen in complete charge of his senses. He spent the summer and most of autumn eating well, boosting his endurance, add that to Geralt not pushing them so much (last year was his fault too, Jaskier wanted to reach their winter den as fast as possible) and he reached the top awake and mostly alert.

Vesemir greeted them in the front hall, eyes examining Jaskier. “You seem better this year. Learned how to keep the mountain from kicking you in the teeth?”

“I'd say so, yes.” Jaskier brushed past the old Witcher as they headed up to their room, rubbing against his shoulder for the smallest second. He heard Vesemir inhale deeply before heading back to the dining hall to finish dinner. Jaskier didn't need to fuck someone to show affection, it was all about learning that specific person's love language. For Vesemir, he showed his love through subtle brushes and brief touches, grounding him in the world that seemed ready to move so far beyond him.

Jaskier had enough energy to spread the blue silk sheets across their bed, checking over his shoulder to see the hungry look in Geralt's eyes as he watched. “After dinner,” Jaskier said, smoothing the wrinkles out of the sheets and piling the thick fur blankets on top. “I don't know if I'll have the energy, but you can rub against me all you like.”

“Mmm.” Geralt swept up behind him and sniffed his hair. The sweet smell of Jaskier's happiness and contentment flowed over him and Geralt sighed, happy to pass a normal winter once again. “I believe you'll find _we_ will rub against you all we like. Eskel's already here, I can hear him next door.”

Eskel had indeed arrived the day before them. Down in the dining hall, he greeted Jaskier and Geralt with open arms, pressing their foreheads together, sharing their breath. Jaskier let his eyes flutter closed, relaxation spooling through his limbs. Yes, he was finally home for the season.

Eskel, Geralt and Jaskier were tired from their journey, and Vesemir never talked much, so dinner was a silent affair, with the pop of the fire the most chatty thing in the room. When they retired to bed, Eskel came with them. The food clearly energized the Witchers while it put Jaskier to sleep, so he let them pull him out of his clothes, falling into bed in a tangle of limbs.

Two mouths and four hands roamed his body as he teetered on the edge of sleep, touching and tasting their fill, add in the silk sheets and the moment took on dream like quality. Jaskier heard Eskel whispering to Geralt, “This season, I'd like to stay in here with you... like old times. Will he mind?”

Geralt chuckled and kissed the side of Eskel's face, over his scars. “What do you think? He loves seeing us together. Suddenly requited boyhood love, he calls it.” One of Geralt's broad hands slid down Jaskier's back. None of their touches were intended to arouse—Jaskier was too exhausted for that—but both Witchers _needed_ to touch him, to convince themselves their arrangement had not changed with the long year on The Path, that Jaskier belonged to them all just as they belonged to him.

Eskel and Geralt spent the next hour kissing and touching each other, reconnecting while Jaskier slept between them. He wasn't a buffer anymore, or the human embodiment of plausible deniability so they could continue pretending it was “just sex” between them; they were in this together now, wholly, irrevocably together.

The next morning, there was an extra body at the breakfast table. Lambert shot to his feet and swept over to Jaskier, wrapping him up and kissing deeply. Jaskier let himself get lost in the kiss for a moment, holding Lambert's delicious biceps to keep from swooning. “I got in before sunrise. Didn't want to wake you,” he said.

As soon as Lambert released him and Jaskier regained his footing, he slapped the young wolf across the face. “What the hell is your problem?” Jaskier spat.

Eskel climbed to his feet but Geralt held him back with a shake of his head. _This is warranted_ , he silently explained. A few weeks ago, Jaskier told him about the... misunderstanding with Coën, his whole body shaking as he did. “He's so lonely, worse that all of you. I think he might be the last of his school.”

“He told you that?” Geralt asked, sitting next to their camp fire as Jaskier paced impatiently.

“I saw it in his eyes. He's in such pain, and Lambert just made it worse. When I see him this winter, he's going to get a piece of my mind...” Well, here was that moment, and Geralt was more than content to sit back and watch Jaskier give Lambert what he had coming.

Lambert blinked, eyeing Vesemir sitting at the head of the table. “Here? Now? We haven't even had breakfast yet...”

“I'm not trying to get you in the mood, you idiot. If I punched you, I'd break my hand.” At the same time, Jaskier's hand did sting and he silently wished for cold snow to dull the pain. He hit a little too hard, harder than when they played... “Coën came to visit me in Oxenfurt. He said you needed my _permission_ for him to stay this year. Where in the hell did you get that idea?”

Lambert swallowed thickly, his eyes darting to Vesemir again. They didn't... discuss these things in front of Vesemir. Sure, they made jokes and allusions, and Vesemir knew what was going on (he smelled it all over them and all over his keep, which he was not fond of) but to come out and say it... “Jaskier,” Lambert whispered. “Can we talk later?”

“No. We talk now.” Jaskier growled. “Coën's that Griffin they all bitch about, he's been here before. Why do you suddenly think you need my permission to be with him? When did I say that?”

“You didn't. I thought—if we—” Lambert stammered, “I had to ask if you want to fuck Coën. I'm not going to promise you without speaking to you, that's insane.”

Jaskier's mouth flopped open for a moment before he waded through the insane Lambert logic. “Coën's nice, but no, I don't want to fuck him at this point in time. That doesn't mean you can't.”

“You wouldn't mind?”

“No!” Had Lambert listened to a word Jaskier said these past few years? “All the love in your life does not have to come from me! Or me and Eskel, whatever. If you want another winter lover, my blessings on your both! You can borrow my oil!”

Lambert moved in close and Jaskier did not pull away, no matter the shout in his voice, he did not pull away from his wolves. “You'll still... if I'm with Coën...” Lambert whispered.

“Yes.” Honestly, did Jaskier have to draw him a picture? “Unless you and Coën decide something different, which I will fully support.” All the anger drained out of him and Jaskier stroked Lambert's cheek. “Don't you remember the rules? When we see each other, we get to touch each other, unless either of us wants that to change. Do you want that to change this winter?”

“No,” Lambert said.

“Good, neither do I. If Coën doesn't like it...” Jaskier thought back to Oxenfurt, the broken cracked note in Coën's voice, the sadness in his eyes... “I don't know much about him, but I think we'll come to an agreement all parties enjoy.”

“Is he even going to come?” Lambert grumbled, slumping down at the table and picking at his food. “I never gave him an answer. Maybe if I ride down, I can find him and get us back before the storms get too bad. Maybe—”

“He'll be here by nightfall,” Vesemir said, cutting through Lambert's hasty plans. “I saw him on the mountain earlier this morning. He's not far out. Now can you shut up about it? You'll put me off my breakfast.”

The table fell silent and Jaskier wedged in between Geralt and Eskel. Another thing he'd learned about Vesemir's way of showing love: he didn't want to talk about it... ever.

Before he left to attend to his chores, Jaskier leaned over to Vesemir. “If I wanted to find out more about the School of the Griffin, where would I look?” Years ago, Geralt gave Jaskier a lecture on which Witchers to avoid—mostly Cats and Vipers, but a few individuals as well—Griffins were not on that list, so he knew almost nothing about them, and now a Griffin was coming to stay...

Vesemir grunted. “Library. South wall. There are volumes about each school.”

“Thank you.” Jaskier ran off to take care of his chores. He hoped to do a little research before he met Coën again.

Vesemir seemed to understand Jaskier's intent without discussion and assigned him fewer—but no less difficult—tasks this morning. After feeding the animals, unloading supply carts, and delivering more materials to Geralt and Eskel as they fixed holes in the roof, Jaskier took his tired body to the library.

The volume on the School of the Griffin was old (and more of a ledger than a proper book) with the first few entries of information written in the same, beautiful hand. About a quarter way through, the writing changed, a note at the top of the page explaining why:

_Master Hector was taken by a dragon early winter 1066, may he rest well in the afterlife. Master Sigwaerd recording from 1067 onward._

The latter entries were filled in by several different Witchers and consisted mostly of names and deeds of Griffins, with a few notes on day to day life in the Griffin keep, Kaer Seren. The last entry, comprising the last five or so pages of the book (the rest were blank, clearly marking when the school ceased to be) were all about Coën's mutations, trials and deeds. It wasn't difficult to put together, the achingly sad thought assembled itself in Jaskier's mind without his permission: Lambert was the last Witcher trained at Kaer Morhen, the last survivor of the class killed by fanatics; and it appeared Coën was the last surviving Griffin from the last class to come out of Kaer Seren. Witcher timelines were never one hundred percent correct, but they were definitely the same age, only a year or two difference, maybe, which was the blink of an eye to someone so long lived. The same age, emerging from the same sad situation... no wonder they were drawn to each other.

The other details about the school—their knightly values and high social etiquette—only reinforced Jaskier's impression of Coën, strangely polite for a Witcher with a vein of honor running through him even more stubborn than Geralt's sense of honor. How an upright, chivalrous man like Coën fell in love with the feral wolf cub that was Lambert, was anyone's guess.

Jaskier returned the book to the shelf just as Geralt walked into the library. “Hmm, trying to figure out what Coën sees in Lambert? The dust is disturbed on the Griffin volume,” he answered before Jaskier had a chance to ask. Sometimes he thought Witchers had psychic powers, but he knew most of it boiled down to their unparalleled senses. It still wasn't fair. “Kaer Seren was destroyed by an avalanche, not a mob. Coën and a few others dug through the wreckage, recovered as many books as possible and brought them here. Half that bookcase is from Kaer Seren.”

“Mmm, good to know. And, yes, a bit. Other than their ages, they don't seem to have much in common. Except, you know, Witcher.” Jaskier fell into step with Geralt as they left the library and headed towards the dining hall. The rhythm of winter was easy to fall into and even though they'd been working all day, not checking the sun for the time, the smells of dinner wafted through the halls. Vesemir's bellow of “come eat!” wouldn't be long.

“Griffins are more... honor bound than most. They ask permission, they bow, they stupidly give their lives for causes they believe in. But Coën knows what it's like to be the last link in a chain, same as Lambert. It binds them together, and they play off each other well.” Geralt sighed and shook his head. “They're a bad influence on each other too. With Coën, Lambert gets nicer, and Coën turns into more of a little shit. In the end, they give each other what they need, I just don't know why it has to happen in the middle of the hall.”

Jaskier tried to hide his smile at Geralt's spot-on analysis on his brother and the other Witcher. Geralt observed more than he let on, and he definitely listened when everyone thought he wasn't paying attention. “I won't tell Lambert you said he was _nice_.”

“Good.” Geralt steered them into the dining hall where Lambert and Eskel sat, already starting to fight over the largest piece of meat. Vesemir snapped them both on the shoulder with a wooden spoon and sat down, pulling the large piece onto his plate.

While the three wolves talked and compared the year's stories, Jaskier sat quietly and ate, chewing over his thoughts as well as his food. If Griffins were indeed more chivalrous than most other schools, it made sense for Coën to come talk to Jaskier. It was adorable, in a way, asking for Lambert's favor when Coën knew he gave it to Jaskier...

The front doors scraped open and Lambert froze, the roll in his hand hovering half way to his mouth. Jaskier reached across the table and punched him on the arm. “Go talk to him.”

Lambert dropped the roll (the first time Jaskier had ever seen him abandon food, must be serious) and ran to the front hall. Geralt and Eskel started talking to each other, loudly, boisterously. “How's it going on the gate? Chain looked rusty when we came through!” Geralt nearly shouted.

“I'll check it tomorrow!” Eskel yelled back. “I replaced a few boards today! Didn't have time to look at the mechanism closely! How about the roof? Find any nests with eggs?”

Vesemir grumbled at them. “You don't have to talk over them. Just don't fucking listen.”

Boots scraped down the hall and Lambert entered with Coën. Jaskier saw them step apart at the last second, and Lambert's newly swollen lips. But Coën was the picture of decorum, his armor neat despite the trek up the mountain. He bowed to Vesemir, then regarded Geralt, Eskel, and Jaskier in turn. “Master Vesemir, thank you for having me in your keep this winter.”

Vesemir nodded. “Our home is open to all Witchers. Please, chose any room you like.”

Jaskier squashed the urge to sigh happily at them. Vesemir was old—how old, none of them would say—and from what he read of the Griffins, they stuck to the older traditions. Of course Vesemir knew the proper greetings, how to speak to Coën like an elder of a bygone age. The Old Wolf Welcomes the Young Griffin to His Keep... oh, the songs wrote themselves sometimes.

“I bet we know what room he'll be in...” Eskel said in a singsong voice. Jaskier elbowed him in the ribs. Clearly, without Lambert to ruin a cute moment, Eskel stepped up.

That same almost blush flushed across Coën's cheeks. He bowed to Vesemir again. “If you don't mind, I finished my rations on the way up, and I'd like to retire for the night.”

“Yes, good night,” Vesemir said.

With one last glance at Lambert, Coën turned and headed out. He stopped at the dining hall doors and peered back at Jaskier. “Jaskier the Bard, a word, if you please?”

Jaskier walked into the corridor with Coën and Lambert, stopping at the bottom of the stairs. Lambert's eyes flicked back and forth between them, the want to stay for their conversation written across his face. “I'll meet you in the room,” Lambert said. He climbed the stairs two at a time, looking back only once.

The loud voices in the dining hall started again and Jaskier had to stifle a laugh. At least they were trying not to eavesdrop. “Thank you,” Coën said. “For speaking to him. He seems more receptive.”

“I hope you can enjoy your stay now.”

Coën pressed his lips together, clearly, there was more on his mind. “Lambert told me... he said you were still _involved_ with each other this year, or that you wished to be. And I can still stay with him as well?”

Jaskier saw all the half formed questions across his face and shook his head. “My apologies for the confusion. Lambert isn't very good at summing up. Yes, I sleep with Lambert while I'm here, and Geralt and Eskel. I love them.” Coën nodded, listening to Jaskier's explanation. It was the first time he'd used 'the L word' in front of a Witcher and they didn't react like Jaskier poured soup on their head. Interesting. “But I do not want to keep them away from another lover. Lambert can enjoy time with you all he likes, I'm not stopping him.”

The confused crease that made its way through Coën's brow had yet to soften. Jaskier switched tactics. “Let me put it another way: I don't mind sharing Lambert's favor with you. As long as you agree with that?”

Coën thought for a moment. His eyes traveled up the stairs, where Lambert waited for him, probably hiding behind the door, ready to tackle him into bed. “I believe I do agree. Though, I'm not sure I understand.”

“We can talk about it later. Go, be with him. I'm sure he's excited to see you.”

Coën chuckled, a smile breaking across his face for a moment. “Excited to pin me to the bed, no doubt.”

“Or the floor,” Jaskier said. “Or the wall...” Coën shifted a little and he took pity on the poor Witcher. They had all winter to compare Lambert's technique. “I'll see you later, have a good night.”

“Good night, Jaskier the Bard.”

Jaskier flapped a hand, waving the formality away. “It's just Jaskier. Jaskier of no where...” He retreated back to the dining hall and Vesemir snapped at Geralt and Eskel to fucking stop shouting already.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The few solid things on Coën concern his appearance: he has a large black beard to cover the pox scars from childhood. This is a little odd, because the first round of trials and mutagens are supposed to make a boy immune to childhood diseases, which makes it seem like Coën started his training late, after already contracting a few. His eyes aren't the same golden yellow either. The lore mentioned that while not many boys survive the trials to get those golden Witcher eyes, a few survive but experience weird side effects. Coën's eyes never changed correctly and they are more sickly green and blood shot than the cat's eyes we know. The Witcher lore is really interesting, especially when it comes to the other schools.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Lambert wants a shave, Coën asked for a back rub—quite politely, I must say. And you two will want to fuck. I need my energy for all that. Now! Lunch!”
> 
> They continued down the hall, but Geralt's arm around Jaskier's shoulders tightened. “Do you... want Coën?” he whispered.
> 
> Jaskier sighed a little, hugging him and Eskel closer. “Oh, you really are dense, aren't you? I told you, I have all the traffic I can handle. Just because I rub Coën's back doesn't mean I'll rub his cock.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is heavy on ASMRtist Jaskier. There's actually a lot of ASMR in this fic, but I didn't tag for that because it seemed anachronistic. This is also a long chapter because there were so many things I wanted to do with Coën, but I didn't want a third winter chapter. Any how, please enjoy :)
> 
> If anyone finds a typo, let me know and it'll be seen to.

The first day of training was the first day Jaskier saw Lambert not attached to Coën by the cock. The others really weren't joking, they liked to fuck _everywhere_. After tending the animals in the afternoon, Jaskier stumbled across them in the library, Lambert pressed up against a shelf, books cascading down around them as Coën tried to fuck him through said shelf; Geralt caught them in the armory while storing gear for the season— “At least Jaskier and I fucking lock the door!” —and Eskel found them _in his bed_ while moving some things over to Geralt and Jaskier's room.

“What!” Lambert shouted, breeches held up with one hand, the other still on Coën. “You're not using it this year!”

“I don't fuck Geralt in your bed!” Eskel yelled back.

“That's because he doesn't fucking fit!”

A scuffle ensued, Lambert's breeches ended up torn around his ankles and Jaskier got a very lovely view of his ass, which he dearly missed seeing. Geralt pulled them apart and Coën made sure Lambert found his way back to his own bed.

That night, after Jaskier rubbed his shoulders and tried to soothe away as much tension as possible, Eskel was still on edge. “This is just as bad. They have no respect! You think Coën wouldn't let him...” Eskel spat.

Geralt smoothed a hand through Eskel's hair as Jaskier pressed soft kisses to his scar, trying to get his mind back to the two naked men requesting his attention. “They're a bad influence on each other,” Geralt said. “Coën eggs him on as much as Lambert pushes him. Think about it, Coën no longer has a winter keep to fuck around in. This must be a play land for him.”

Eskel slumped his head on Jaskier's shoulder. “Please, Jaskier... you have to calm them down. I can't take another winter of this.” It had only been two days.

Let alone the fact that they'd fucked Jaskier in _every_ room in this castle, he did see Eskel's frustration. First of all, they locked the rooms they occupied, secondly, they definitely didn't have at it in the middle of the hall. And they were always careful to make really daring choices (like the dining hall table) after Vesemir retired for the night.

“Yes, yes, they need to reign it in. Witcher whisperer on duty, I suppose,” Jaskier said. He cupped a hand under Eskel's chin, bringing his head up. “Now, if I'm not mistaken, I haven't seen you and Geralt take each other apart yet. Can we fix that tonight?”

The feral little gleam in Eskel's eye chased away whatever annoyance Lambert caused. Geralt wasted no time hauling Eskel down in front of the fire and pinning him to the rug. Eskel used his strong shoulders to push against Geralt, getting him off balance and sending him to the floor. Jaskier relaxed into the silk sheets and watched them wrestle, his hand barely brushing between his legs. They had all night to really get to the good part.

Jaskier accompanied them to training in the morning, eager to see Coën's fighting style. The ledger really stressed the “traditional” ways of the School of the Griffin, and Jaskier looked forward to comparing the modern Wolf style against the traditional Griffin style. It would make for a wonderful ballad.

“Jaskier!” Lambert ran at him, pulling Jaskier into his arms right before they exited into the courtyard. There was no place for soft emotions out there in training, it all had to stop at the threshold. “I have a request.”

Coën stood a few paces behind Lambert, watching... The way he held Jaskier, how close their lips were, it probably looked very strange from the outside, especially since Lambert was probably holding Coën like that not ten minutes before. “What is your request?” Jaskier didn't pet Lambert's hair or stroke his ears, he didn't want to rub it in, but he didn't hold back either and let Lambert be as close as he wanted.

“Before dinner,” Lambert said. “Can I get a shave? In the hot spring. I want Coën to see... what you do.”

Jaskier trailed a finger through Lambert's stubble. He never grew a truly full beard, it was always in some state of too many days without a shave, but in order to get there, he did need a shave every once in a while. Jaskier had never seen someone so calm and pliant under a razor, Lambert nearly melted the first time Geralt convinced him to let Jaskier try. Something to the combination of the cold blade, the warm spring, and the smell of Jaskier's soap swirling through the air calmed Lambert to his core, deeper than even the best fuck.

“That can be arranged.” Jaskier looked out at Eskel and Geralt, already in the courtyard, pacing impatiently. “I was planning to go the hot spring later—all of us. Is Coën alright with that?”

“It's fine,” Coën said from behind them, his eyes still flicking over Jaskier, not quite sure what he was looking for. “Lambert says you give an amazing back massage. Only if you're willing...”

“Of course.” Lambert set Jaskier down and they walked into the courtyard. “See you after training.”

“Finally,” Vesemir grumbled. “Eskel, with Coën. Lambert and Geralt together. Steele swords, no Signs.”

Jaskier settled on the bench to watch. He brought his composition book today in case he got inspiration for a ballad. Kaer Morhen in the winter was a gold mine for songs, but he couldn't use most of it due to the, uh, _intimate_ nature of things. But a good old training montage, those never went out of favor.

Lambert and Geralt got right down to it, exchanging blows and easy counters, two dancers who'd practiced together for so long they stopped counting the years. Eskel and Coën were the more interesting pair to watch right at the start. Instead of lunging straight in, Coën stepped back and bowed. Eskel returned the gesture with a smile, and only then did they get down to practice. Jaskier had watched them train before, and he'd seen Geralt fight often enough to pick up a few things. More than once, Eskel opened himself up for an easy trip or similarly cheap shot, Coën never took the bait, making Eskel change his plans and shift to a more straight forward attack. Coën was too chivalrous to take an easy win, even if it was a trap... knightly tradition indeed.

Vesemir never partnered Lambert and Coën. Sitting next to Jaskier, he grumbled, “They'll be together enough this winter...” Jaskier had to cover his laugh with a cough.

After training, Lambert and Coën quickly disappeared back into Lambert's room. Eskel and Geralt swept Jaskier away down the hall, fitting him between them perfectly. “Hot spring?” Eskel asked.

“In a bit, let's get lunch first. I'll need the energy.”

“For what?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier smirked. “Lambert wants to bring Coën down to the spring, wants me to show him what I do.” Eskel and Geralt stopped walking, beginning a silent conversation behind Jaskier's head. He waved a hand at them both, pulling them out of it before they started. “A shave, Lambert wants a shave, Coën asked for a back rub—quite politely, I must say. And you two will want to fuck. I need my energy for all that. Now! Lunch!”

They continued down the hall, but Geralt's arm around Jaskier's shoulders tightened. “Do you... want Coën?” he whispered.

Jaskier sighed a little, hugging them both closer. “Oh, you really are dense, aren't you? I told you, I have all the traffic I can handle. Just because I rub Coën's back doesn't mean I'll rub his cock.”

While Lambert requested an evening shave, Jaskier went down to the spring early to get everything ready. He'd been so busy with the usual winter chores, he only had time to drop his bag off and make sure the roof hadn't caved in. Now he had a moment to walk around and light the braziers, sweep the dirt away, drag the rinse tub out from storage, and arrange his oils and soaps the way he liked. He spent a moment considering the scents he had. While Coën might like smelling like Lambert, Jaskier didn't really want to use the same soap, if he was truly the last of his school, he deserved a little special consideration.

According to the ledger he found, the Griffin's keep lay in the mountains near the sea. Jaskier closed his eyes and imagined standing on that mountain, the salty brine of sea water carried on the wind, so high, the salt almost faded, leaving just a trace of the cool water whipping across the mountain rocks.

He opened his eyes and saw the perfect soap sitting off to the far left. Sea salt and cypress—he made it for a Lord in the Redanian court. His lands stretched for miles along the coast, and he spent his boyhood fishing and sailing those waters, climbing hills and mountains with his brothers, but his station demanded his presence at court and he longed for the smells of home... Jaskier was no stranger to the delights of the coast and made extra just in case the Lord wanted more some day. Well, now he'd give it to Coën, treat him to a little piece of a home long lost. Hopefully he liked it, Jaskier hadn't been wrong yet...

Eskel and Geralt joined him in the spring a little later, both reaching for him, trying to tug him into the water. “Don't get too excited,” Jaskier said, kissing them both. “I want to get the actual scrubbing and bathing down before you fuck me. I don't know when Coën and Lambert will come down, so let's take it slow, alright?”

“Mmm, fine with me. Will you touch my hair?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier slid into Geralt's lap with a smile, threading his fingers through that luscious hair. Winter Geralt was one of his favorite people, it was like all the tension of the year stopped at the bottom of the mountain. He asked for what he wanted, he smiled, he said things like “thank you,” and “you're too good to me, Jaskier,” he said them out loud for anyone to hear, not whispered in the dead of night in the middle of a forest with no other sentient soul around. If the only perk of Kaer Morhen was this Geralt, the soothing, calm, communicative one, Jaskier would make the trip every year until he died of happiness.

Eskel swam up behind him, pressing Jaskier between them, reminding him of the other perks of Kaer Morhen. Lips kissed Jaskier's ear, hot breath sweeping across his skin. “When he's done, will you... kiss my scars again?” Eskel whispered. Winter Eskel, though not as loud and forward with his desires, was also the vastly preferred model. He touched and caressed, telling Jaskier in softly spoken words what he wanted—when he wanted them both, or when he simply needed alone time with Geralt.

Jaskier leaned his head back into the curve of Eskel's shoulder, his hands still combing through Geralt's hair. “Of course, my love, of course.”

When Geralt had his fill of the tingling fire Jaskier's fingers sparked, he pushed the bard towards Eskel. His eyes still closed, Geralt dunked under the water for a moment, then relaxed back into the corner, enjoying the pleasing crackle of nothing filling up his mind. With Geralt fully seen to, Jaskier wasted no time straddling Eskel's lap and kissing his scars. Starting at the top of his head, he pushed back the wisps of hair in Eskel's eyes and kissed the first of the jagged pink lines. Traveling down, over his brow, Jaskier spared a kiss for each eyelid before continuing.

The scars branched out and Jaskier followed the lines with his lips, making sure he didn't miss a single spot. Eskel purred under the attention, a shiver running through his whole body. After Jaskier reached the bottom of Eskel's chin, he came back up and kissed his lips, licking into Eskel's mouth to taste him. Naturally, he tasted like Geralt and Jaskier, the combination of them all together a heady mix. Jaskier's whole life was based on his desire to drown himself in love, and here he'd finally reached perfection, there wasn't a single man in this keep he didn't love down to his very bones. Even Coën, with his sad sickly eyes, held Jaskier's love. He loved what the Griffin did for Lambert, how happy they made each other.

Jaskier pulled back from Eskel and rubbed their noses together as a final parting note. “Was that good?” he asked.

“Yes,” Eskel said, just as blissed out as Geralt. “That's exactly what I wanted.” He looked over his shoulder at the door. “Lambert, you can come in now.”

The door opened and Lambert walked into the spring, Coën following closely. Lambert started stripping his clothes straight away, but Jaskier caught a hit of one of those silent little eye conversations they were all so good at. _Thank you for waiting, brother_ , Eskel's eyes said, _for not making me show my vulnerabilities in front of another_.

And Lambert's eyes replied, _you're welcome, brother_. They said no more and Lambert threw his clothes into the laundry basket. He turned and smiled at Coën. “Oh come on, you can't get in the hot spring fully clothed.”

“You can keep your small clothes on, if that's more comfortable for you,” Jaskier said. Disentangling himself from Eskel, he climbed out of the pool and stood next to Lambert. Coën's fingers tugged at the hem of his tunic, but he didn't get undressed. His eyes passed from Lambert and Jaskier, then to Geralt and Eskel in the pool. They didn't seem to care that their human was naked in front of another Witcher...

Jaskier saw the indecision written across his face. “Lambert wanted a shave. Why don't I take care of him first—you can watch—while you decide if you still want that back rub. Or perhaps something else? Maybe I should write out a list of services for the wall,” he chuckled.

“Don't,” Geralt called from the corner of the pool where he'd been happily dozing. “It'll give Vesemir ideas.”

Jaskier shook himself at the thought and turned back to Lambert and Coën. “Does that work? I shave Lambert first, then we can decide what you want.”

“What I... want.” Coën repeated the words like an unfamiliar elder tongue, confirming Jaskier's suspicions. There wasn't a single Witcher on the entire Continent who was in tune with their own desires. Well, Jaskier would straighten that out.

“Lambert, sit,” Jaskier said.

Lambert sat on the bench closest to Jaskier's work space, grinning from ear to ear. “Trust me, Coën, whatever you need, he can give it to you. Now come on, take off your clothes. For me?”

Jaskier had been under the full weight of Lambert's soft eyes before and he didn't expect Coën to hold out long. With tense arms, Coën removed his tunic and unlaced his breeches, leaving his smalls before sitting on a bench opposite Lambert.

His eyes traced Jaskier's hands as he wrapped a warm towel around Lambert's face, softening his skin and opening the pores. Jaskier selected Lambert's orange soap and worked up a lather, removing the towel and coating his skin with and even foam. “Clean shave or just your neck?” he asked.

“Clean shave.” A little bit of the soap foam got in Lambert's mouth as he answered, but he didn't squint his eyes at the taste or try to spit. He held absolutely still as Jaskier's hands worked their magic and was rewarded with a quick stroke along his ear. A shiver shot down his spine and Lambert sighed, tension starting to spool away.

The second the razor touched Lambert's skin, Coën tensed. With smooth, even strokes, Jaskier ran the razor from the top of Lambert's side burn, down his cheek about an inch. He had a towel over his shoulder to wipe off the blade and worked efficiently, shaving away Lambert's days of mountain stubble one swipe at a time. Lambert tipped his chin back to allow Jaskier access to his neck and Coën tensed again.

Those strange yellow-green eyes focused on Jaskier's hands every second, watching the blade sing across skin, never drawing a drop of blood. Using another clean towel, Jaskier wiped the remaining soap off Lambert's face and spread a cooling balm across his skin to complete the process. Normally, he'd lean down and snatch a kiss, but with Coën watching, he wasn't exactly sure if they were at that stage yet.

Lambert made the decision for him, standing up and pressing their foreheads together. “Thank you.”

Like their first winter together, Lambert pulled Jaskier into a soft kiss, his tongue barely brushing past his lips. “Thank you,” he whispered again. Loose limbed and relaxed, Lambert wandered over to Coën, draping himself over the other Witcher's back. His eyes were dark with contentment, cock half-hard as he hugged Coën to him. “Your turn now. It feels nice, I promise.” He slid his nose along Coën's ear, up the side of his bald head. “He can wash you, or give you a massage, or...” Lambert ran out of ideas, too relaxed and content to simply hug Coën and breathe him in.

He asked for a back rub earlier, but the reality of it—Jaskier there, naked, ready to touch him—might be too much for Coën at the moment. When faced with indecision, Jaskier had many back up plans to use. “I can brush your beard,” Jaskier suggested. Beards required care, but it might be less intimate than a full on back rub, an easier gate for Coën to enter. “I have a nice beard oil too, like the one I gave you back in Oxenfurt. I can brush your beard and take care of it for you. I do it for Geralt when he has his winter beard in.”

“Yes Coën, do that. It feels great.” Geralt grunted from the hot spring.

Jaskier poked Lambert until he moved away, then pushed him towards the pool. “You're done, go relax. Let me handle this.” With a little wave, Lambert slid into the pool, nudging Eskel in greeting before setting his eyes on Jaskier and a visibly nervous Coën. Jaskier paused for a moment, retrieving one of the bath sheets and wrapping it around his waist. No sense in crowding close to Coën with his cock hanging out, that didn't scream calming environment. As soon as he was half covered, a little bit of tension disappeared from those wide shoulders.

“Coën,” he dropped his voice to just above a whisper. The three wolves currently splashing each other in the hot spring could still hear him, but that wasn't the point. Part of Jaskier's talent for this was making the Witcher under his hands feel like the only person in the world, it's why he was so good, and it's why Coën was about to melt under his touch. “Can I touch you? Is that alright?”

Coën gave a stiff nod and sat up straight, watching Jaskier closely. He slid a hand up the side of Coën's face, feeling his beard. “Not as dry as I thought, looks like you use the oil I gave you.”

“I do. It's nice.”

“Good. I'll give you more before you depart at the end of the season. Can I wash your beard? Is that what you'd like from me?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.”

Jaskier picked up one of the spare buckets he kept by his work station and drew some water from the spring, returning to Coën. He set the bucket on the bench and dipped a fresh cloth in the water. After the trek up the mountain, Jaskier expected to find dirt hidden in that beard and spent an extra few minutes checking to make sure he got it all, running the cloth behind Coën's neck and ears as well, hitting any often missed spots. He washed Coën's face for good measure and saw the man's shoulders start to relax a little more at the soft touches.

He dripped the beard oil over his fingers and showed Coën his hands. “Can I apply it for you?”

“Yes.”

Jaskier ran his fingers through Coën's beard, pushing the oil close to the skin, covering every follicle. The hair turned smooth and silky under Jaskier's touch, and a low moan rumbled from Coën's chest. His hands gripped tight to the bench even as the stress continued to bleed out of him.

“You can touch me if you like,” Jaskier said, putting more oil on his fingers. Coën's beard was much larger than Geralt's and needed another coating to get every hair. “Or not, it's up to you. But if you want, you can rest your hands on my hips.” The towel wrapped around him made the whole situation less awkward. While Jaskier had no scruples about letting Coën touch his bare skin, the suggestion might scandalize the chivalrous Witcher.

Coën nodded and rested his hands on Jaskier's hips, quickly checking Lambert's reaction. Lambert, to his credit, didn't make a joke or give a rude gesture, he just smiled at Coën. “See?” he said. “He knows what he's doing.”

Jaskier finished coating Coën's beard in silence, fingers combing a little to make sure he got every last hair. Satisfied with the job, Jaskier fetched the beard brush from between his bottles of oil. A few quick swipes to smooth and shape, and he stepped away. “There, you're done. How do you feel?”

Coën opened his eyes. He wasn't sure when he closed them. The soft scent of coconut in the beard oil was sweet, yet tolerable to his sensitive nose, like the other oil Jaskier gave him in summer. His back and shoulders felt looser than they had in a long time, and there was a residual tingle in his skin. “I feel... it's not bad.”

Jaskier sighed happily, a weight lifting from his chest. A new Witcher under his hands always made him nervous, he wanted to make them all feel good and loved. He wasn't going to fuck Coën, so he had to concentrate extra hard on making him feel loved in other ways. Mission accomplished, it seemed. “That is the desired result. We're going to soak in the spring for a while if you want to join us.”

“No. Wait.” Coën stood up, his fingers latching around Jaskier's wrist. His lips stuttered around half-formed words, eyes sweeping across Jaskier's face, searching for... something. “I don't, I don't understand. My head. What did you do?”

“It tingles, doesn't it?” Geralt asked. Over in the spring, all three wolves were on alert as soon as Coën grabbed Jaskier's wrist. They'd all had a similar reaction, it wasn't dangerous yet...

“Yes,” Coën said. “What is that? Magic?”

Lambert emerged from the water and touched Coën's hand, releasing his hold on Jaskier and drawing him away. “It's not magic. Do you remember the first time you killed a monster? When you returned to Kaer Seren for the winter, and you'd had many more kills by then, but you wanted to tell your brothers of the first? How it made you proud, deep in your gut?” Coën nodded, his eyes on Lambert's bottom lip. “It's that same feeling. Your body is happy, that's how it tells you.” He pushed Coën against the wall, pressing his thigh between his legs. “It's like when I make you come, that satisfaction. Jaskier knows how to bring it out everywhere. It's a good thing.”

Coën swallowed, nodding slowly. He closed his eyes again, thinking over the past few moments. “Yes... I do feel good.” Quick as a striking snake, Coën turned them around and pinned Lambert to the wall. “And I feel _hungry_.”

A feral light entered Lambert's eyes. He tipped his head to the side, exposing his neck. “Go ahead, take a bite.”

Coën sunk his teeth into Lambert's neck, sucking a bruise into the skin while Lambert pushed his thigh between them again, giving Coën a firm surface to rut against. Jaskier fanned himself a little and retreated back to the spring. He suddenly understood how Lambert convinced Coën to fuck in the middle of a hall. They were magnetic together, a sight to behold.

Slipping into the water, Geralt caught Jaskier and pulled him in close, slotting his chin onto his shoulder. “You were the preshow, now we get to watch the main event.”

Geralt's cock bumped against his thigh and Jaskier laughed. “I thought my ass was the show?”

“You're also the encore.” Eskel floated over to them and they all stared at Lambert and Coën.

Coën grabbed Lambert by the shoulders and shoved him back towards the benches, climbing on top of him as Lambert tried his best to rip Coën's small clothes off. “Should we really be watching?” Jaskier asked.

“They fuck all over the castle,” Eskel said. “If they didn't want anyone to watch, they'd stay in Lambert's room.”

“Besides,” Geralt whispered. Jaskier shivered at the smooth voice right next to his ear and Geralt chuckled. “Eskel and I have plans for you, and we need room to work. We also need you to relax.” Geralt's hand wrapped around Jaskier's cock and started stroking, slow and deliberate, fingers pressing along his shaft just the way he liked.

“I'm already relaxed.” Jaskier leaned back into Geralt and enjoyed the hand tending to him. He was already emotionally exhausted from paying attention to four Witchers in one night, he needed a little care himself.

“ _More_ relaxed,” Geralt whispered.

Jaskier caught Eskel's eye and his mouth fell open. “Oh. _Oh_.” A little thrill shot up his spine. “I see.”

On the other side of the cave, Lambert seated himself between Coën's knees, laving his cock slowly, tortuously. Coën growled and threaded his fingers in Lambert's hair, holding tight. He threw his head back when Lambert's lips slid over the head, his tongue barely visible as it pressed up on the underside of the shaft. Jaskier knew what that tongue could do, he'd felt those lips, and his appreciation for Coën's stamina increased ten fold as he watched Lambert employ every trick in his book. Coën's fingers tightened in his hair—once—before smoothing out again, regaining his composure.

Geralt worked Jaskier's cock slowly, really building him up. With Eskel at his other side, those beautiful eyes too clever by half watching the whole preceding, Jaskier felt heat building low in his stomach. He rested his hand on Eskel's cheek, stroking the scars he worshiped not half an hour ago, and came, shaking in Geralt's arms. He dimly heard another grunt of completion and Lambert's satisfied slurping.

“Coën,” Geralt called, Jaskier limp in his arms.

The other Witcher shook himself out of the post orgasm fog that settled over his brain. Lambert was still between his knees, staring up at him like he was watching the bloody sunrise. “Yes?” he called back.

“We're going to treat our bard for being so kind to us. Do you and Lambert want to stay and watch?”

Lambert's eyes lit up, he saw Eskel—a devious glint in his eye—and remembered last winter. Rolling up to his knees, he crowded in close to Coën, their lips only a breath away. “Yes, let's stay. It's a hell of a show.”

Coën looked from Lambert's pleading eyes, to Jaskier, pliant and soft in Geralt's arms. “What does Jaskier say about it?”

Jaskier shrugged, a dopey smile crossing his face. “I love having an audience.”

With a nod of agreement, Lambert pulled Coën into the spring, wrapping his arms around him. “You'll love this,” he whispered. “Watching Jaskier is almost as good as touching him.”

“Mmm,” Coën hummed and settled in. With the memory of Jaskier's fingers on his skin, and Lambert close beside him, he had no doubt he would enjoy whatever came next.

Eskel hopped out of the spring first and spread a few bath sheets down on the stone floor for Jaskier's comfort. Geralt lay down on the floor, pulling Jaskier with him, limp as a rag doll. After he finished bathing and tending to the others, Jaskier's brain effectively switched off. He was done making decisions, ready to be moved and manhandled wherever he was needed. As long as everyone came out satisfied, he didn't care how they got there.

Geralt settled Jaskier to straddle his hips, hands caressing as they went, teasing little touches to arouse. The smell of chamomile bloomed through the warm air and Jaskier's cock twitched to life. Never again would he associate that smell with anything other than fucking, medicinal properties be damned. Geralt pulled him down for a kiss, bending him forward to give Eskel access to his delicious ass.

Two fingers teased at his rim and Jaskier moaned into Geralt's lips. “You both going to fuck me?” he whispered. “Do you like sharing me? Is it tight enough for you?” The filthy words had their intended effect, filling out Jaskier's cock and bringing Geralt's to the sort of hardness best compared with stone. All that hot, firm skin pressed against Jaskier and he moaned, leaning all his weight into Geralt. Eskel pressed a third finger inside him, followed soon after by the head of Geralt's cock.

“Relax, little lark,” Eskel whispered into his ear. “The wolves are at the door. Let us in?”

Jaskier bore down and Geralt slipped inside him like they belonged together, two halves suddenly made whole. Geralt rolled his hips once, twice, enjoying the feel of Jaskier hot and tight around him. “Growing up, Eskel and I shared everything. And now we share you,” Geralt growled.

Eskel's finger slid up the side of Geralt's cock, pressing in, looking for some give in the tight muscle surrounding it. Jaskier so wanted to let him in, he wanted both of them. The finger slid inside him and Jaskier gasped, tightening a little in surprise. “Shh, shush.” Eskel placed his other hand on the small of Jaskier's back, soothing the sudden tension away. “Relax. Let us lead the way.”

Jaskier closed his eyes and willed every muscle in his body to relax. He started bending forward and Geralt caught his shoulders, supporting his weight. Eskel added more oil to his fingers and slipped two digits in. “So close...” he whispered. “Almost there...”

With one more deep breath, Jaskier searched out all the tension in his body. Days of work and the journey up the mountain left their weight on his muscles. But here in the hot spring, that tension need not follow him. Jaskier willed his body to relax, from his toes to his shoulders, his mind sank deeper into the warm pool of contentment he held inside himself. Whether he was facing a rough audience, or had to stop the shake in his legs after a monster nearly got a bite of him, Jaskier had a soft place to visualize, to help him let go...

Eskel managed to get a third finger in along side Geralt's cock and he purred at the sight. “Yes, that's it, Jaskier, that's perfect.” The fat head of Eskel's cock bumped up against those fingers, pushing forward as the digits retreated. Jaskier felt the burning stretch and moaned, the pleasant ache diluting his focus even more, until the world around him took on a misty glow, nothing looked solid except the golden eyes peering up at him, and Geralt's hand stroking his cheek.

Eskel's back flush against his, he pressed kisses along Jaskier's neck while he got used to the stretch. “You are a wonder,” Eskel whispered. “If I asked the gods to sculpt a man for me, he'd never be as perfect as you.”

Jaskier was just coherent enough to give a weak laugh. “Stealing my best lines?” Words like that graced the corner of his composition book, a half-formed idea he may or may not use for a song. Eskel had seen it over his shoulder, apparently.

Eskel started moving inside him, sliding along Geralt's cock. Jaskier sighed and let himself sink into bliss, the world around him going fuzzy...

~

Coën and Lambert did calm down... after a fashion. They went from fucking everywhere, to fucking in the hot spring almost exclusively. Coën remained the stoic, courtly knight in morning trainings and during meals, only to transform into the lustful man who liked fucking Lambert in plain view as soon as they entered the spring. It was perfectly normal for Jaskier to walk into the spring after a long day helping Vesemir index the library, to find Coën and Lambert in the corner of the pool, teeth marks littering Coën's shoulders as Lambert pinned him to the stone wall. The didn't even stop when they heard the door squeak... Well, Eskel stopped complaining (after he stopped finding them in his bed) and life settled into the usual calm of winter.

The first week, Jaskier brushed Coën's beard again and washed his face, but the Griffin soon longed for Jaskier's hands on his skin just like the rest of them. Back rubs and massages followed, all with a towel around Jaskier's waist and Lambert close by. They didn't talk about the nights Lambert snuck into the other bedroom and pulled Jaskier from Geralt or Eskel's arms, touching him, kissing him, begging for love with his eyes. And Jaskier gave him whatever he needed, he'd never deny a Witcher silently screaming out for his affection.

One night, when dinner was done and Lambert took out his cards to take Eskel's shirt, Vesemir nodded to Jaskier. “Get your lute, lark, I want you to play our ballad.”

Jaskier retrieved it from the library—he liked composing surrounded by the smell of books—and sat on top of the table. He only played _this_ song during the winter, so he took a moment to warm up, strumming his lute and reminding himself of the correct cords.

Jaskier opened his mouth and started to sing. “Up in the mountain high; there's a castle that touches the sky...”

Coën—preparing to take a share of Eskel's gold—went still, his fingers freezing mid shuffle. His eyes traveled over to Jaskier perched on the table top nearby, his mouth dropping open. The others chatted quietly or tapped along with the song, but Coën was completely focused on Jaskier.

Jaskier searched for the brightest light in his audience and sang to it, turning a little more towards Coën. “These halls they are cold; but my heart do they hold; for one season a year, one season a year,” he sang, then repeated the chorus when Coën licked his lips, responding to the song more than the others.

When he got to Lambert's verse— “Lambert will probably cut your throat; but oh he's quick with a joke; with biting words, does he dote; strong and young, he'll fall under no King's yoke” —Coën's eyes flashed over to the youngest wolf, the smile across his face shining all the way up to his eyes. Lambert smiled back, nudging Coën's shoulder, a rough show of affection as prelude to more intimate acts later...

The game completely forgotten, all eyes were on Jaskier, but he held Coën's gaze throughout, singing to the newcomer. He finished the last chorus with a little flourish and Coën shot to his feet, crossing to Jaskier and walking into his space, as close as they'd ever been outside the hot spring.

Coën rested his forehead against Jaskier's, inhaling deeply before pressing a soft kiss to his lips. Jaskier inhaled in surprise but returned the kiss before Coën had second thoughts, gently sucking his bottom lip before letting him pull away. “Only Witchers are allowed to pay in kisses,” he joked.

Normally stoic eyes traced down Jaskier's face. “Your words are as sweet as your hands, Jaskier the Bard of Kaer Morhen.” He pulled away, glancing back at Lambert before heading up to bed.

Lambert picked up his cards and quickly followed. “Sorry, Eskel, I'll take your money tomorrow.”

Coën never kissed him again, but his eyes studied Jaskier every time he sang or played, a soft satisfaction spreading across his face. Half way through winter, Lambert asked to fuck Jaskier while Coën watched. As he watched, he had that same look, like this was the most captivating performance he'd ever seen...

A few days before they were set to leave, Coën approached Jaskier in the library, his back straight and his knightly visage in place. He knelt in front of Jaskier, eyes shining as he asked for a lock of hair... “Lambert already gave me one. I... I would like yours as well, as a favor.”

Jaskier fetched a pen knife from the nearby desk and gave it to him right then and there. Coën climbed to his feet and bowed, the lock clutched tight in his hand. At practice the next morning, Jaskier couldn't help but notice the newly sewn patch on Coën's gambeson, right over his heart, no doubt in his mind it contained Jaskier and Lambert's hair woven together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if I've mentioned this before, but I do have a facial scar and a lot of other scarring mostly on my leg (car accident, broken leg, it happens) so the way they show Witcher scars in the show and game makes me really happy. Good guys in media don't have scars, but here we have a whole group of people with scars borne from brave deeds and I love it, so I'm always trying to find a place for some good scar worship. If that puts you off, I apologize, it is a little favorite of mine though.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier had every intention to play with the lordling, mock him, defame him before Geralt arrived and they made their escape... his intention changed the second that unworthy mouth started spouting lies to his face. No one slandered a Witcher in front of Jaskier, no one. “There's no such thing as an honest Witcher, you say? In my experience, there's no such thing as an honest royal. How do you think you got your money? Your lands? Liars, thieves and slavers, the lot of you.” Fire shot through Jaskier's veins, setting his arms shaking with the urge to hit the lordling and only stop punching when his face resembled the rock troll head. “You aren't fit to lick a Witcher's boots.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay folks, here is the thing I've bee trying to shoe-horn into this fic for AGES. There is a tree that smells like come, I shit you not, it does. They have them planted all around my apartment complex and every summer, the air smells like come (I am really, really not making this up). I didn't know what they were called and literally googled "tree that smells like come." The internet returned with callery pear. If anyone knows this to be wrong, please let me know and I'll correct it, but I swear to you, there is a flowering tree that smells like come. i don't know if it's flowers can even be used to make oils or soaps or anything, but I wanted it in this series and I made it happen. It's also a very small part of this chapter, but a personal accomplishment for me.
> 
> Please enjoy <3

Geralt was especially twitchy today. Jaskier tried to throw himself into his performance, this close to Oxenfurt, he was very well known and more than a handful of coins fell at his feet. He liked paying attention to his audience, drawing energy from them as they drew energy from him, it was synergistic and the sign of a good performer. But Geralt was _twitchy,_ which made Jaskier twitchy, and half his attention stayed on the Witcher throughout the performance.

Jaskier finished a song about Geralt and a royal griffin—always a crowd pleaser—and took his leave to eat and drink some ale. And, to check on Geralt.

He slid into the chair across the table and started eating the bowl of stew he procured from the bar. “What's wrong?” he asked.

In the old days, Geralt might grunt at him, or not answer at all. After so long together, Geralt didn't mind letting Jaskier into his thoughts, especially if it kept the bard safe. “I don't like it here. The last contract...” His lip twitched into a half snarl, eyes darting around the tavern, resting on each human face. “There was something not right about it. We should leave.”

“You mean the contract in the last town?” Jaskier asked but started eating a little quicker. Geralt's bad feelings were usually spot on. “The town we also left because you said you had a bad feeling?” The town where the Lord tried to haggle Geralt's price down when he had the rock troll's head in his hand. Jaskier started checking the crowd too, a little more subtle about it than Geralt's wary predator eyes.

A familiar-looking man in very expensive clothes sat on the other side of the room, pointedly not looking at them. The door opened and another familiar man in fine leather boots walked in... and there was another at the bar...

Jaskier opened his mouth but Geralt shook his head. “I see them. Can we go?”

“Yes, let's.” Abandoning his stew and his pint, Jaskier headed towards the front door while Geralt slipped out the back—their standard evasion plan—so the brutes had to choose who to follow. Idiots usually chose to follow the weak bard. Big mistake.

In front of the tavern, Jaskier saw a clear path to the stables and picked up the pace to rendezvous with Geralt and Roach. “Hey! Bard!” The tavern door shot open and two of the three well-dressed goons stepped out into the mid-afternoon light.

Shifting his lute to the safety of his back, Jaskier turned to face them. “Problem, gentlemen?” In the daylight, Jaskier recognized them now, oh yes. Geralt was right, the last town, the Lord who tried to swindle him out of his pay... he sent his son to deal with the Witcher. How very, very stupid.

The man in the most expensive clothing—clearly the ring leader—stepped closer to Jaskier, his hand gripping the hilt of a jeweled dagger at his waist. “My father would like a word with your Witcher. Seems the troll head you left as proof was fake. He wants his gold back.”

Of all the lies they'd heard, all the excuses to rob Geralt of his hard earned coin, that had to be the worst. “A fake troll.” Jaskier said the words very slowly, making sure the lordling understood how truly stupid he sounded.

With his patchy beard and unscarred face, he couldn't be any older than nineteen, maybe twenty. He shifted a little then straightened, trying to deflect Jaskier's words with arrogance, which usually worked for the gentry. “Yes. It was a fake. We paid for a troll.”

“And you got a troll,” Jaskier said. He heard hooves from behind the stables. Please, let Geralt have Roach, let them be free of this place soon... “Have you ever seen a troll, boy? Craggy, cracked gray skin, nasty teeth, pig nose. That's what Geralt handed you. I seem to recall you became a bit faint at the sight of it.” The lordling eyed his friend, shifting uncomfortably. Clearly he didn't want the tale of his discomfort with the dead toll to spread. “You're saying a _fake_ troll head made you dash to the other room and empty your guts?”

“It wasn't real! Our mage confirmed it! Just artifice—Witcher trickery. We paid him for an honest job, there we were fools, there's no such thing as an honest Witcher. Where'd he run off to? Coward, hiding behind a fucking bard!”

Jaskier had every intention to play with the lordling, mock him, defame him before Geralt arrived and they made their escape... his intention changed the second that unworthy mouth started spouting lies to his face. No one slandered a Witcher in front of Jaskier, _no one_. “There's no such thing as an honest Witcher, you say? In my experience, there's no such thing as an honest royal. How do you think you got your money? Your lands? Liars, thieves and slavers, the lot of you.” Fire shot through Jaskier's veins, setting his arms shaking with the urge to hit the lordling and only stop punching when his face resembled the rock troll head. “You aren't fit to lick a Witcher's boots.”

Rage twisted the lordling's face, destroying any trace of his moderately handsome visage. “You fucking bastard, I'll have you!”

The man lunged and Jaskier dodged out of the way, turning towards the outside wall of the stable. His hand closed around the handle of a shovel. A flick of his wrist sent it singing through the air, cracking the lordling across the face. Blood and a few teeth spattered into the dirt, sending the man reeling to the ground.

“Atticus!” his friend shouted, kneeling down next to the unconscious lordling. “Atticus! Are you dead!”

“He'll be fine,” Jaskier said. Probably...

“Jaskier!” Geralt shouted. Like an angel in black leather, he appeared out from behind the stables, urging Roach to a full gallop, extending his arm down to Jaskier.

Securing his lute strap, Jaskier grabbed Geralt's hand, hauling himself onto Roach's back. She slowed a little under the new, unbalanced weight, but kept her heading, taking them out of town and into the safety of the woods. “What took you so long?” Jaskier grumbled, trying to find a more secure position spread across the back half of the saddle. Geralt wouldn't stop until they were well clear of the town and Jaskier really didn't want to fall off Roach when she was going this fast.

“Had to lose the other one before I went for Roach. What did you do? I saw blood.”

Jaskier smirked. “Hit him with a shovel. He claimed we gave him a fake troll head. What does that even mean?”

Geralt threw his head back and laughed. All their years together, he'd seen Jaskier most often talk his way out of poor situations, he certainly wasn't a natural fighter, but give the man the proper instrument and he'd improvise. The proper instrument this time happened to be a shovel. Good thing there was one easy to hand.

They passed over a bridge before Geralt slowed enough for Jaskier to correctly seat himself on Roach's back, for which she was grateful. They kept at a good pace until the town was miles behind them. “We should be fine from here on out,” Geralt said, stopping to let Jaskier dismount. “I'll find us somewhere hidden to camp. No good making ourselves easy targets.”

“Mmm, yes...” Jaskier hummed, but he wasn't listening. Nose in the air, he turned in slow circles, smelling the breeze. There was... a scent, on the air... something familiar, he just couldn't place it.

“Jaskier, what is it?” Geralt asked.

The wind picked up and it hit him like a bolt from the blue. “Callery pear!”

“What?”

“Do you smell that?” Jaskier ran from one side of the road to the other, following his nose. “The whole forest smells like come—that's callery pear. I need to find some!”

Stopping to retrieve his bag from Roach, Jaskier ran off into the trees, leaving Geralt to grit his teeth and follow. Off the path, the low hanging branches forced him to dismount and lead Roach by her reins. Dressed in his green silk today, Jaskier was difficult to keep track of as he half blended with the forest. “Jaskier! Why are we looking for trees that smell like come?” He had to admit, this forest did have a... strange odor about it. And Jaskier had done this before, when he smelled a nice flower, or a sugar maple, he pulled them off the road to collect some fresh ingredients for a soap he had in mind. But who in their right mind would want soap that smelled like come?

He found Jaskier stopped in front of a group of trees covered in little white flowers, the smell much more potent here. Jaskier reached up to the branches, picking the flowers and filling the jar in his hand. “Why do you want to make a soap that smells like come?” Geralt asked, stopping next to him.

Jaskier threw a wicked grin over his shoulder. “You told me you like licking me after sex because the smell of me stays with you. If I figure out how to make a soap that smells like my usual lavender and my come...”

While Jaskier wore many scents, deliberately and from his work with them, he preferred lavender day-to-day. It was the first thing Geralt remembered smelling on the bard and it was a sort of signature of his. A soap or balm that smelled like Jaskier... he didn't hate the idea. “Of all the flowers in the world, you find the one that smells like cock snot,” Geralt grumbled.

Jaskier ignored him and collected more flowers. Once the jar was full, he secured the lid and returned it to his bag. “There, done. Thank you for stopping. Should we continue fleeing?”

“A little farther, I think. If we find a secluded—” Geralt cut himself off, whirling around and glaring through the trees. Far in the distance, too far for Jaskier to see, a horse and rider made their way through the woods. A far off heart reached Geralt's ears, too slow to be a human... another Witcher. The horse's pace quickened. “Jaskier, go stand behind Roach.”

“What is it?” Jaskier asked, but did as he was told, half crouching behind the horse. “Is there someone coming?”

“Another Witcher, I think... but I don't know who.”

They stood silent and still for another moment, until Geralt finally caught a glimpse of the rider through the trees. The unknown man raised his hand in greeting when he spotted them; as far off as he was, he had to be a Witcher, there was no doubt. Geralt stayed still until he fully approached.

Tanned skin and yellow eyes came into focus, along with the cat medallion around his neck. “Hello, Aiden,” Geralt said, his posture stiff.

The new Witcher—Aiden—nodded in greeting. “Hello, Geralt. What are you doing in these parts?”

“Outran a Lord's son who wanted his gold back. Thought I didn't deserve fair pay for a fair job.”

Aiden shook his head. “Isn't that always the way?” He scanned the area, attention falling on Roach. “I hear a human heart with you, Geralt, were you followed?”

Geralt grit his teeth. He didn't know why he hoped to keep Jaskier hidden, he knew it wouldn't work. “Jaskier!” he called. “Come out, meet Aiden, School of the Cat.”

Jaskier looked out from behind Roach before fully emerging. Aiden was still seated on his horse, soft golden eyes roving over Jaskier, taking him in. There was fire in those eyes, gently smoldering, not hidden under layers for Jaskier to peel back before he reached the heart of the matter. Words from Lambert's stories of his adventures with Cats came back to him: “they changed the formula, they feel more readily than we do. Their emotions are on the surface all the time. It makes them deadly, viscous, one time, I saw Aiden...”

“Aiden,” Jaskier said. “You're friends with Lambert?”

The widest smile Jaskeir had ever seen on a Witcher, bloomed across Aiden's face, his eyes practically aglow. “Yes, he and I are very _close_. How is he?”

“He's well, last time I saw him. I winter at Kaer Morhen, he's told me stories.” Another _close_ friend of Lambert's... ah. It started to look like Jaskier fucked half the Witchers in the world and Lambert got the rest.

“Wonderful! Geralt, I'm scouting ahead for the caravan, they should be here soon. Stay and camp with us for the night.”

“Caravan?” Jaskier asked. In all of Lambert's tales (or Geralt's warnings) no one mentioned a School of the Cat caravan. Did that mean multiple Witchers traveling together? Did that happen?

Aiden nodded. “Yes. After the sacking of our keep, Stygga Castle, those of us who remained began a nomadic school. We do not crumble in our ruin, the School of the Cat is alive and well.”

A muscle in Geralt's jaw twitched. “You only say that because you aren't allowed in our _ruin_.”

Aiden pressed his lips together. “My apologies, that was rude of me. Given my friendship with Lambert, I wish there to be peace between us.” Geralt stepped back, ready to decline the invitation and shuffle Jaskier away, but Aiden knew how to sweeten the pot. “This is part of the caravan's regular route. Your pursuers will not search for you this way if they see us here.”

Why did the lousy Cat have to go and make a good point... “Fine.” Geralt gave in. “We'll stay one night.”

“He means thank you for the hospitality,” Jaskier said. He couldn't count how many times Geralt told him about how dangerous the feline Witchers were, but given the choice between an angry royal, and a caravan full of Witchers, Jaskier knew which one he'd take. Thus far, he'd charmed almost every Witcher he met. Royals, not so much.

They started making their small camp while Aiden dismounted and stared through the trees, standing as still as a statue. Roach was brushed and watered when Geralt heard them—the caravan. A train of six wagons rumbled along the forest path, maybe seven Witchers on horse back riding along side, with at least two driving each wagon. Aiden had a point, unlike the School of the Wolf, or Griffin, or Viper, the School of the Cat had members in the plural; despite the unsavory contracts they accepted, they had more remaining members than a full class to come out of Kaer Morhen during its height. Almost twenty Witchers in the caravan, with a few more roaming the Continent on their own, but they always came back... maybe that was their strength, they kept their clowder close, while Geralt's pack spread themselves out. Seeing them all together like this, it made Geralt feel old and tired, as crumbling and broken as Kaer Morhen.

The wagons circled up and the Witchers eyed Jaskier, paying little attention to Geralt—a Wolf alone didn't pose a threat to them. “Hello!” Jaskier greeted them brightly. “So nice to meet the infamous School of the Cat, I've heard so much.”

An older looking Witcher, possible of age with Vesemir, sneered down from horseback. “Heard from who? Geralt of Rivia?”

“A little,” Jaskier admitted. “But, Lambert told me stories as well, of your, uh, time together... training...”

“Relax, Guxart,” Aiden said. “This is Jaskier the Bard of Kaer Morhen. Lambert's told me about him. Will you favor us with a song tonight?”

“I'll favor you with many songs, whatever you like.”

Aiden swept Jaskier around, introducing him to everyone, leaving Geralt by himself to finish setting up their camp. He kept both eyes on Jaskier as each Cat looked the human over, asking after Lambert, complimenting his lute... _He's safer here than on the road_ , Geralt reminded himself. For as much as he hated to admit it, Aiden was right, no fool lordling would follow them into a group of Witchers. Maybe the idiot noble thought he could handle one, but no man could handle twenty. Geralt did not like staying so long with thieves and cutthroats about, but Jaskier's safety was more important.

Fire and bed roll set, Geralt slumped down and started looking through their bags for something to cook. A little ways away, four Cats were gathered around Jaskier, sniffing at one of his balms. He rummaged in his bag and produced a bar of soap, handing it to Aiden. Aiden went to break the bar in half to share and Jaskier frantically waved him to stop, handing him two more bars with the same scent. “And I think I have more coconut...” Geralt heard Jaskier say.

He ended up giving Aiden six bars of soap and two jars of balm, most of his remaining supply. For weeks, he grumbled about needing ingredients and now Geralt knew they had to stop in the next big town. Winter was a long way off but Jaskier helped supplement their income more than Geralt cared to admit, monsters just weren't paying as well these days...

Evening set in and the Cats built a few fires, two for cooking, and one larger bonfire for socializing. The noise they made, their laughter and chatter, it wasn't stealthy at all and Geralt had to shove down the unease in his stomach. He would not sleep well tonight, and probably not at all.

Jaskier stood near the big bonfire and tuned his lute. “Any requests?” A few shouted songs and Jaskier began to play.

Geralt was so intent on watching Jaskier, he didn't notice Aiden until the other Witcher deliberately stepped on a stick to alert Geralt to his presence. “May I join you?” Geralt nodded to the ground next to the fire and Aiden sat, folding his legs under him in that graceful, cat-like way they all seemed to have. “Your bard is a delight.”

“He is,” Geralt said. Jaskier gave a little twirl, the tempo of the song speeding up. A few of the others began to dance.

“Lambert's told me stories, that his voice fills the dining hall of Kaer Morhen every winter, making it feel like the gods themselves have finally smiled on Witchers once again.”

Geralt's cheek quirked into a smile before he smothered it. “His voice is lovely.” He'd never say that to Jaskier's face, not even in the heat of passion where words could be excused as getting caught in the moment. Geralt allowed Jaskier to make him soft, but he wasn't about to give over too much leverage. The day Jaskier found Geralt actually liked his singing was the day Geralt said goodbye to silence forever.

“Thank you for allowing us to enjoy it,” Aiden said.

“Jaskier is his own man. I don't give him permission.”

“But you did not have to stay the night with us.”

The fire crackled in front of them and they both watched Jaskier's performance, watched him dance and twirl, taking the hand of a young Witcher, barely older than Lambert, and spin him around before returning to his song. The Witchers gathered around the fire clapped and sang along, shouting more suggestions for the next song.

“I know we differ a great deal,” Aiden said, his voice soft. “But I do thank you—honestly, truly thank you—for trusting him in our company. I haven't seen my school this happy in a long time.”

“He has that effect,” Geralt grunted. “Winters with him are... peaceful. As much peace as any Witcher can get before we die.”

After a few more silent moments, Aiden returned to the rest of his company, leaving Geralt to brood in peace. Someone shouted that dinner was served and the dancing broke up. The young Witcher tried to get Jaskier to follow him, but Jaskier politely declined, returning to Geralt and the tiny meal he made for them.

“Enjoying yourself?” he asked as Jaskier sat down next to him.

“Why yes, I really am. I wish there was more dancing at Kaer Morhen.” Those sapphire eyes gazed up at him and Geralt felt a little of his tension flowing away. “I know my wolves don't dance, I appreciate that you listen at all.”

“Hmm,” Geralt grunted. “The acoustics in the dining hall give your voice a little more meat. Makes it less...”

“Filling-less pie, yes, yes, I know.” Jaskier rolled his eyes and started eating.

After they finished their meal, most of the Cats settled down to sleep in their wagons, a few combing the forest on watch duty. Jaskier felt sleep pulling at him as well, between the contract yesterday, traveling in the morning, the fight in the afternoon, and dancing the night away, he was exhausted. He went to curl up across their bed roll only to have Geralt shift him closer, practically across his lap. Jaskier had definitely slept in worse spots and made himself comfortable.

“You're not going to sleep at all, are you?” he whispered.

“Mmm,” Geralt grunted.

“We'll find an inn tomorrow,” Jaskier said, voice soft as sleep tugged him down. “After that lordling, I don't want to sleep in the open for a while... not without an entire school of Witchers watching me.”

Geralt chuckled softly at that. “Come winter, that is what you will have again.” Jaskier fell asleep with Geralt's fingers combing through his hair.

~

They rose early the next morning, the caravan already packed up and ready to move. Aiden came over to bid them farewell. “Thank you for the songs,” he said, his smile for Jaskier, and Jaskier alone. “And the soap. Our supplies were running low. We don't have many fine things in this life, and you have gifted us a bit of your happiness to take with us."

Jaskier did nothing to hide his smile, letting it fill his entire face. “You're more than welcome. Soap is a bit of a specialty of mine.”

“As is bringing happiness to Witchers,” Geralt said.

Aiden laughed. “I have to agree. Safe travels, Geralt and Jaskier.” He bowed and returned to the caravan, mounting his horse and leading them out.

Geralt and Jaskier were heading the opposite direction. They packed up their camp and looked around for any forgotten items. On the wind, soft enough for only him to hear, Aiden's voice floated over to Geralt. “We will not forget this, White Wolf. Keep him safe.” Geralt glanced after the retreating caravan and caught Aiden's eye, nodding silently.

“We ready?” Jaskier called his attention back. Lute on his back, ingredient bag on his other shoulder, he smiled that bright sunshine smile, the fight and mild peril of the day before already forgotten.

“Yes. Let's go.”

Geralt walked beside Jaskier, leading Roach by her reigns. Even after they reached the road again and the risk of catching a branch in the face disappeared, he stayed on foot with Jaskier, not talking, mostly listening as Jaskier told stories from the night before, like Geralt wasn't there with him.

“Don't worry, I'm not stupid,” Jaskier said suddenly.

“I didn't say that,” Geralt said.

Jaskier chuckled. “All night, whenever I got too close to one of the Cats, you tensed. I did not forget your warnings, I knew exactly who I was entertaining. I saw it in their eyes—madness is like that, obvious, easy to see when you know what you're looking for. Coiled springs, the lot of them, ready to cut the nearest throat if their whim demands it.”

The tightness in Geralt's released, a tightness he hadn't fully felt until it was gone. Jaskier laughed again and brushed against his arm, lingering a second too long. “You thought I'd let Lambert sway me? His stories were more of a cautionary tale than yours. You tell me they messed with the formula and their emotions push them into madness and rage; Lambert tells me about the time Aiden tried to throw him off a mountain over a game of cards. The message got through, trust me.”

Geralt took a deep breath. “Good. I'm glad you listen.”

“Of course I listen. I wouldn't have lasted this long if I didn't.”

The sign posts they passed showed the nearest town more than a full day's journey away, so there went Jaskier's hopes for an inn, they started looking for a good camp site. Once Geralt proclaimed they were sufficiently far away from the last two towns that fucked them over, they made camp behind a thick grove of wild blackberries, the large bushes hiding even Roach.

The summer sun took its time to set, bathing Jaskier in golden light as he moved around their camp, setting out their bed roll and brushing Roach. Geralt might have taken a bit longer making the fire, preferring to watch Jaskier float around, blue eyes bright in the fading sun.

Jaskier pet Roach's nose one last time before sitting by the fire, pressing close to Geralt. Lips brushed his ear and that too lovely voice whispered, “The staring is very obvious.”

“I thought you liked being watched?” Geralt smirked and wrapped an arm around Jaskier's hips, pulling him close.

Jaskier took the lead and straddled Geralt's lap. His hands tangled in that silver hair, making Geralt's eyes flutter closed and hold on tighter. An absolutely wrecked sound poured out of his lips. “Mmm, that's what I thought.” Jaskier scratched lightly along Geralt's scalp, then down his neck, back up again... more moans and shivers followed. “It's been too long.” In Jaskier's opinion, any amount of time he wasn't touching Geralt was too long, but he understood they needed to stop fucking and touching long enough to make money...

“Four days,” Geralt sighed, letting his head fall forward into Jaskier's chest.

“Yes, four days.” Four days since they'd kissed or touched more than a brush, four days since Jaskier had a chance to push his love into Geralt's skin, reminding him he was more than a monstrous monster hunter, he was more than what the world saw in him.

Geralt wrapped an arm around Jaskier's hips and moved them back until he could lean against a tree. After they were settled, he went pliant and boneless in Jaskier's hands, letting the bard sooth away all his cares.

The little slump in Geralt's shoulders told Jaskier more than the most eloquent words. Trailing his fingers down over Geralt's neck, he unbuckled the first clasps on Geralt's armor, removing the thick layers separating their skin. Sitting as they were, it took a little work to peel him out of his armor, but Jaskier wouldn't disturb the deep pool of calm spooling through Geralt's body for all the gold in the world.

Armor placed to the side, Jaskier stripped his doublet and shirt before removing Geralt's tunic. He raked his nails down that firm chest, lightly scratching and swirling little patterns in his chest hair. Geralt roused to attention just enough to pull Jaskier to him, nosing along his chest and the hollows of his collarbone, inhaling deeply.

“Who's treating who here?” Jaskier asked.

“Mmm.” Geralt rubbed his face across Jaskier's chest one more time before leaning back again. “You smell amazing. You expect me not to drown myself in you?”

“Shush now, I'm supposed to be the poet here.” Climbing off Geralt's lap, Jaskier rested his hand over the hot bulge for a moment before unbuttoning Geralt's breeches. He licked the end of his thumb and rubbed it across the head, spreading the beads of precome around, making Geralt jerk at the too soft touch. He wanted more, he always wanted more.

Jaskier sank down, his legs in the dirt, chest across Geralt's lap, mouth positioned over his cock. He used one hand to steady the base and licked slowly across the head before kissing up and down the shaft. Geralt dug his fingers into the soft dirt underneath them, thumping his head against the tree. “Jaskier... four days...”

“All the more reason to enjoy it,” Jaskier said between kisses.

He spent another moment kissing and licking softly over the head of Geralt's cock, rubbing his nose delicately up the length of the vein before opening his mouth and beginning in earnest. Jaskier never ceased to marvel at the fact that, the head of a cock—every head of every cock he'd had, at least—fit perfectly in one's soft palette, like the gods knew how much mortals would enjoy touching each other's loins with anything at hand. While all Jaskier's Witchers were similarly blessed, every head, no matter how fat, fit the roof of his mouth perfectly. It set up the perfect position for him to trace his tongue under said head, teasing the foreskin as he went.

“Uh, yes, finally,” Geralt grunted.

Jaskier tried his best to glare up at him, but those liquid gold eyes shining in the setting sun took his breath away. Oh, how did this ethereal, god-like creature ever stumble across his path? Geralt had said it before, he didn't deserve Jaskier, his love or whatever else the bard gave of himself, but Geralt was often stupid, if anything, Jaskier didn't deserve him. Not quite eternal, but so very long lived, what did he see in a shiny, loud human? After all these years, he still didn't know, and he wasn't about to ask.

He took more cock into his mouth until the head hit the back of his throat. Jaskier was very, very good at this (he had years of practice) and used the thick saliva at the back of his throat to coat Geralt's cock, giving a smoother slide as his hand stroked what his mouth could not fit.

Witcher stamina be damned, four days weighed on a man, and Jaskier saw Geralt start to squirm a little earlier than usual. Swiping his tongue from side to side, Jaskier pulled off a little, keeping just the head in his mouth as he waited for the inevitable...

“Uh, Jaskier... Jas—” Geralt groaned, a deep sound pulled from the very bottom of his lungs. His hips bucked a little and Jaskier's hand continued stroking, pumping all of Geralt's release out and swallowing as quick as possible.

Some dribbled over his lips, it was unavoidable, and Jaskier lifted his head. Hungry, slightly bleary eyes met his and Geralt cupped his cheek, pulling him in and licking the last stripe from his lips and chin. A sticky kiss followed, Geralt's come rolling in their mouths. When he finally released Jaskier, Geralt pressed their foreheads together and smiled. “Thank you. What can I give you now?”

Jaskier smiled back and kissed him again, much softer. “You've already given it to me.”

For the first time in far too long—and four days was far too long—Geralt pinned Jaskier to the ground and spent the rest of the night worshiping him with kisses and other pleasures, both of them hoping they never had to wait that long again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The School of the Cat is very interesting, the caravan especially. While I couldn't find anything on how many Cat Witchers are still alive, the fact that they have a whole caravan makes me think quite a few. Artistic license and all that. Also, a group of cats is called a clowder and I could not resist using that.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Letho stayed in place, his hands raised, until they reached the bridge he blocked. The gully it crossed over wasn't deep, Geralt could jump it at a run, maybe not Jaskier on Roach. “What do you want?” Geralt growled.
> 
> Letho's eyes slid up to Jaskier. “A castellan approached me about a contract recently, on behalf of his Lord. Very specific contract—he wanted a Witcher to take it.”
> 
> “Your affairs are you own, Letho, I don't care what contracts you take,” Geralt spat.
> 
> “The contract is for a bard who travels with the Witcher Geralt of Rivia,” Letho said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right away, I want to make sure everyone knows: this is about 75% The Amazing Devil's fault. I was trying to think of how to wrap up this story and nothing really clicked... then I started listening to The Amazing Devil while writing and the last two chapters kind of fell out of my head. You know how, in like PG movies, it says "warning for tobacco use and mild peril"? This chapter has mild peril. Everything will be fine, this is a happy shiny fic... but I needed something so I could pretend I remember how to write a story with plot.
> 
> Please enjoy, and remember: happy shiny fic universe, everything will be fine.

“I swear, every year I come down with fewer and fewer clothes,” Jaskier grumbled, pawing through his bag. The bottom of the trail was so familiar now, he could walk it with his eyes closed. Eskel was always petting his old red silk doublet—it was too worn for performing, yet still too nice to get rid of—and no doubt it lined the inside of his bag this very moment. Lambert made off with his long underwear, he was definitely sure of that. Coën didn't stay this year and Jaskier kept some of his things in Lambert's room for nights Geralt and Eskel wanted to be alone. He left his second pair of long underwear in Lambert's bed and now poof, gone, he never found them again to pack them.

“They miss your smell,” Geralt said. “They want to keep it with them when they're on The Path. It probably helps them focus, gives them a future to look forward to. If they don't survive the year, they don't get to see you again.”

Jaskier stopped. “That is both the sweetest, and most heartbreaking thing I have ever heard. I think I'll write a song about it. Stolen Pieces of A Lover... working title.” He started walking again, following Geralt and Roach mostly by sound as he rearranged his bag after tearing it apart looking for the obviously missing clothes.

After so many years following Geralt and memorizing the way he moved, Jaskier heard him come to a halt and managed to stop just before smacking into Roach's ass. A man stood down the hill a ways, blocking their path. He was too far away for Jaskier to make out his features, but he couldn't mistake that scarred, bald head.

“Letho,” Geralt hissed.

Letho raised his hand. “I come in peace, Geralt! Can we talk?”

He was far enough away they could turn back and find another trail... but he might still catch up with them. Stepping closer to Roach, Jaskier met Geralt's eyes and they made their decision. Geralt quickly dismounted and ordered Jaskier up, assuring his escape if things went sour...

Letho stayed in place, his hands raised, until they reached the bridge he blocked. The gully it crossed over wasn't deep, Geralt could jump it at a run, maybe not Jaskier on Roach. “What do you want?” Geralt growled.

Letho's eyes slid up to Jaskier. “A castellan approached me about a contract recently, on behalf of his Lord. Very specific contract—he wanted a Witcher to take it."

“Your affairs are you own, Letho, I don't care what contracts you take,” Geralt spat.

“The contract is for a bard who travels with the Witcher Geralt of Rivia,” Letho said.

Jaskier's blood froze in his veins. “W-what...”

“Jaskeir, get out of here!” Geralt fell into a fighting stance, his hand on his sword.

“I didn't take it!” Letho shouted. Jaskier hadn't commanded Roach to move, fear and panic seizing him. Without Geralt to physically push him along, his fight or flight response suddenly stopped working.

Eyes like daggers fell on Letho and Geralt did not draw his sword... but he didn't let go of the grip. “Explain.”

“I usually allow them to keep it anonymous, coin is coin. When they name another Witcher... I follow up.” He shook his head. “The idiot Lord who set the contract is Thomas Lethew, apparently your bard attacked his son Atticus and defiled his daughter, Claire.”

Jaskier laughed, face cold with disdain. “That's a fucking lie. I've only had Witcher cock for almost ten years now.”

Geralt spared a glance back at Jaskier, he wasn't much for tough talk, but the anger in his eyes was cold enough to freeze beer. And Letho just... accepted it, the Viper who would sooner kill a human than tolerate one who got in his way, but he let Jaskier talk back to him?

Letho snorted. “I figured as much. And the son? That a lie too?”

“No. I hit him across the face with a shovel, probably knocked out some teeth.” The cold in Jaskier's eyes was still there, starting to unnerve Geralt. “He insulted Witchers, a grievous offense in front of my eyes.”

Letho laughed, a deep, real laugh, not his usual derisive chuckles half under his breath. “No wonder he wants a Witcher to take the contract. Lords don't like when you mess up their heirs, he wants to turn the knife.” He shook his head, still smirking at Jaskier, but it wasn't his flat snake smirk, it was almost... pleasant. “Can't believe I almost forgot how much fire you have.”

Jaskier's face softened for a moment. “Thank you, for the warning.”

“Is there anything else?” Geralt asked. “You turned it down, but what about—”

“I tracked down Aiden on the way here,” Letho said. “The Lord's men approached School of the Cat as well. They all declined. Aiden is tracing their people in the wild, telling them to decline any contract to do with Geralt's bard. Seems they like him almost as much as you do. Interested to know how you managed that.”

Jaskier shrugged. “I was nice to them. Spent a night singing and playing for them. It doesn't take much for people to like me, I'm very likable.”

“Yes, so you've told me.”

Geralt wasn't used to this... Letho, near Jaskier, not a single menacing word in sight. He remembered a few years ago, Jaskier ran into him on his own and didn't fucking run the other direction. Geralt tore a strip off after hearing that— “Are you fucking kidding me? I give you one instruction, Jaskier: see Letho and run. And you invite him into your parents' house?”

“I didn't _invite_ him,” Jaskier grumbled. “We were both there for the same reason and he... followed me. It was fine in the end. There was never a threat—”

“Letho is always a threat!”

The others weren't too pleased either when Geralt told them that winter. Lambert glared at Jaskier across the dinner table, thunder in his eyes, for three days, refusing to have any conversation that wasn't about how Jaskier was an idiot and needed to take better care of himself on the road. Eskel was quiet at first, but soon followed Jaskier into the bedroom and locked the door, demanding a full account of his run in with Letho just to point out all the places where he could've died.

“It wasn't that big of a deal!” Jaskier protested. “We were both in town searching for a Witcher's medallion, I gave it to him and he left, that's all!”

Clearly, there was more to that story than that. “Fine. Message received. Get out of the way, we need to go.” Geralt fell back to Roach and seized her reins from Jaskier, starting to lead them away.

“Go west!” Letho called after them. “That's where they found me, probably already combed the area. They're too stupid to look twice!”

Another good point... damn it, Geralt didn't like when Letho had a point. The continued in silence for miles, then Geralt turned them sharply west. “You're following his advice?” Jaskier asked. He wasn't used to riding for this long, the fact that Geralt let him spread a new sort of unease through his chest, separate from the contract on his life (which was troubling enough).

“We're going to find Lambert,” Geralt said. “When he leaves for spring, he starts off to the west. He only has a day's start on us, he won't be far. Now...” Geralt took a deep breath, trying to calm the strange anger building in him, squeezing him... it felt like a collapsed lung.

He was used to being angry at Jaskier: for talking too loudly when they were supposed to be tracking a beast; for taking the last piece of bread; for getting in the way and putting himself in moderate peril... But that anger quickly cooled, it didn't linger. The clawing hand around Geralt's lungs hadn't left for hours.

Jaskier lied to him. He _lied_. There was something between him and Letho... and Geralt didn't fucking know what it was. There had to be something, because for the first time, Jaskier looked at Letho and didn't stink of fear.

“Now,” he said again. Keeping his eyes straight ahead, he led Roach, Jaskier a captive audience on her back. “You told me you ran into Letho years ago. I'd like the rest of the story.”

“There wasn't much to it. I heard a rumor of a dead Witcher and went to recover the medallion. Letho was already in town on the same errand. He yelled at me, I insulted him, found the medallion and sent him on his way.” Jaskier shrugged. “I told you all that back then. I remember quite vividly, you were cross with me for days.”

Geralt stopped, his shoulders shaking. “That's it. Nothing else happened?”

Unease spread in Jaskier's stomach, sour and queasy. Geralt didn't look at him, _wouldn't_ look at him. “No. Nothing else. Why do you ask?” Why was Geralt suddenly enraged by a stupid encounter with Letho from... wow, almost five years ago now.

“You didn't—” Geralt bit down on the words. No, it was impossible, he shouldn't think—

But he didn't have to say the words, it appeared. Realization dawned across Jaskier's face, then disgust, which morphed into anger. “What. The. Fuck.” Jaskier hissed. He climbed down from Roach's back and Geralt took a step away, expecting a face full of angry bard.

Jaskier didn't come near him. He walked a few paces in the other direction before turning in a circle. He lifted his head and the hot tears streaming down his face were unlike any others Geralt had seen him shed. “You honestly think...” His lips trembled, words faltering. Jaskier covered his face with his hands, hiding more furious tears. “Please tell me this is some nightmare. This isn't real. You don't think I fucked _Letho_ and didn't tell you.”

Geralt swallowed around the lump in his throat. “You're not afraid of him anymore.”

“Oh yes, so that must mean I fucked him!” Clawing at his hair, Jaskier turned away again, shoulders shaking.

The jealousy poisoning Geralt's stomach ebbed away, leaving a heavy stone of guilt in its place. “Jaskier, I don't doubt you. I'm sor—”

Jaskier whirled around, eyes red and puffy. “No, you're right. I didn't tell you the full story.

“You've never asked about my family. I'll give you the short version: I don't like them, I don't think they like me either. I ran away to be a bard when I was sixteen and hoped to never go back. But I had to go back to my home town to retrieve a medallion off a dead Witcher, because I know how important that is to you and the others. Bring back the body or the medallion. I wanted to bring it back for you.

“And there was fucking Letho, calling me a whore in my own fucking house—even after I saved him from a stoning. He said he spent all winter making me afraid of my own shadow because he couldn't smell me, I smell like you, and he didn't like it. He hated that I loved you, and you loved me back. He realized he was the problem, he's the reason his life is shit and he has to take contracts on kings, it's his fault that he's empty, not whatever the mutations did to him.

“I'm not afraid of him anymore because I saw through him. He's not just empty, he is broken, and devoid of light, and he did that to himself.” Jaskier inhaled a shuddering breath and wiped the tears from his eyes. “That's the part I left out. The part where I told Letho he'd never be as human as any of you, and he agreed with me. I don't know why that translates to him liking me now, but whatever, I don't care what Letho does with his life.”

Geralt took a cautious step forward. When Jaskier didn't flee, he took another, and another, until the bard was in his arms. Despite the tears and the anger, Jaskier melted into him, resting his forehead on top of Geralt's shoulder. “I'm sorry.” Geralt rubbed his hand up and down Jaskier's back, soothing away the last little tremors of anger. “I don't know why I thought that.”

“Because Letho being nice to me is the strangest thing to happen since the Conjunction of the Spheres.”

“And just as rare.” Geralt managed to get a small chuckle at that. “We have to keep moving. We'll find Lambert, you'll be safe with him, then I'll get Lord Lethew to cancel the contract. He'll never find a Witcher to take it, but that doesn't mean he won't offer it to more traditional assassins.”

“You're leaving me with Lambert?”

“It's the safest place. Taking you back up the mountain by myself will take too long.” Geralt nosed at Jaskier's hair, breathing deep. The anger from their argument was already fading, but a tinge of sadness remained. After this was all over, after Jaskier no longer had a price on his head, Geralt would get down on his knees and apologize, he never should have doubted the most loyal, steadfast man he'd ever known. But they didn't have time for that now. “Come, we have to move.”

Geralt boosted Jaskier up onto Roach's back—he didn't need to, but after what he'd said, he'd show any small kindness if it made the tears on Jaskier's face disappear faster—and got on behind him. Both of them on Roach was slower than Geralt alone, but faster than Jaskier walking. They needed to move quickly to catch Lambert.

“There's a fishing spot he likes,” Geralt said. “Usually camps there for a few days before searching for a contract. He should still be there. If he is... we'll see him before he sees us.”

Geralt was correct on that, Jaskier definitely saw the jet of water streaking into the sky, sending drops of water and parts of fish raining down. “He's fishing?” Jaskier asked.

“Lambert fishes with explosives. Not a bad method.” When no more explosions followed, Geralt got closer. “Lambert!” he shouted.

A bush on the side of the stream rustled and Lambert appeared, bloody and broken fish piled in his arms. “Geralt, Jaskier! I didn't expect to see you so soon. You don't usually head my way.”

“I need you to take Jaskier back to Kaer Morhen, keep him safe.” Geralt dismounted, holding up a hand for Jaskier to follow, one small apology at a time.

“Go back? I just trekked down that fucking mountain.” Setting the fish aside, Lambert automatically opened his arms for Jaskier and the bard fell into him. He smelled different somehow and Lambert rubbed his nose along Jaskier's neck, through his hair, trying to pin down the strange smell—fear, panic and anger all swirled together, not a combination he was familiar with on Jaskier's skin. “What happened?”

Geralt told him about the contract—and Letho of all people giving them the heads up—as he spoke, Lambert held tighter and tighter to Jaskier. “Right, I'll take him back,” he said. Geralt's plan was the best, no one could get up to Kaer Morhen without them noticing with days to spare. “But what are you going to do? Ask them nicely to please cancel the contract?”

“Exactly. I'm going to ask them nicely when I have my sword to their throat. Should work.”

Lambert nodded, like that was a sound plan. Jaskier was too emotionally exhausted to suggest anything better. It didn't sink in at first—he was a bard, why would anyone seriously want to kill him?—but reality started to hit him in slow bursts, heating the bubbling terror in his veins. Someone wanted him dead, they wanted to take him away from his Witchers. Jaskier held tighter to Lambert.

“Might want to find Eskel. People find his scars real intimidating. Have him stand behind you and scowl,” Lambert said.

“My next stop.”

Now Eskel was involved? A Lord took out a contract on Jaskier's life and now it might get all his Witchers killed. “No, please Geralt, no.” His anger and frustration forgotten, Jaskier threw himself across Geralt's chest, holding as hard as he could. “I can't lose you all, please... don't go, please.” Tears prickled his eyes again and Jaskier released an unsteady breath. Witchers could be killed by crowds of normal men, an army of fanatics destroyed Kaer Morhen, what if Geralt and Eskel showed up to find an army waiting for them? What if this is exactly what the Lord wanted? The scythe over Jaskier's head was just a decoy... “Please. It's a trap, I know it is.” Why didn't they see? It was so obvious now that he thought about it. Who would want to kill a bard? No one, but a Witcher or two...

“Jaskier.” Geralt tipped his chin up, locking their eyes together. “I'll be fine, I'm just going to talk, see if there's a way to show the Lord the error of his ways. There is a threat on your life and I cannot let it stand. If it is a trap, Eskel and I will keep each other safe. We've fought our way out of far worse.” Watery blue eyes did not sway him, while Geralt would move the world to stop Jaskier's tears, he had to endure them this time. It was the only way to save the man.

He leaned forward and kissed Jaskier, holding him in place with one soft hand under his chin. Salt clung to his lips and Jaskier threw his arms around Geralt's neck, trying to hold him in place. _Stay, please_ , he wanted to scream, plead. But Geralt kept kissing him, blocking his words.

Lambert's solid body appeared behind him and Jaskier almost jumped. A nose rubbed through his hair. “They know what they're doing, little lark. They'll keep each other safe while I keep you safe.”

Geralt pulled away and nodded. “Lambert's right, I need you safe.”

Sucking in ragged, irregular breaths, Jaskier let Lambert pull him away, releasing Geralt. He returned to Roach and opened her saddle bags, removing Jaskier's things and handing them to Lambert. Finally, he pulled out a bar of soap, the pine and cedar Jaskier made just for him, the soap that smelled like the mountain in winter, cold air blowing through the trees. He pushed the bar into Jaskier's hands. “I expect a bath when I get back.”

Jaskier held to the bar of soap like a life line. “Yes. I promise.”

With one last kiss and a firm hug for Lambert, Geralt swung himself onto Roach's back and rode off. The second he was out of sight, the tears came, hot and harsh, Jaskier didn't know how to stop them. With the soap clutched in his hand, he leaned back into Lambert's arms. “W-what if he get, gets hurt?” Jaskier sobbed. His legs didn't work and Lambert lifted him, carrying him over to the small camp. “What if he g-gets hurt and it's all my fault? Lambert... I can't—”

Lambert pressed a finger to his lips, then leaned in to lick his tears away. So many times, he'd licked tears off Jaskier's face, tears of joy, bliss, the unbridled happiness that spilled from the bard like water over rocks. Never had he tasted Jaskier's sadness, his despair. It left a bitter taste on Lambert's lips. “Geralt and Eskel have gotten out of worse scrapes that this. Threatening on Lord is nothing, no matter how many men he has.”

Jaskier didn't let go of Lambert for the rest of the night. It made cleaning and cooking the fish difficult, but he managed. Jaskier ate a few bites before the terror in his stomach clenched tight, making him queasy. They shared Lambert's bedroll, Jaskier sleeping fitfully with his ear pressed over that slow Witcher heart.

~

It didn't take long to find Eskel. They all set out later than normal this year due to some heavy snows in late winter. He saw Eskel's stallion outside a tavern and tied Roach up far away from the randy beast.

Eskel's smile disappeared the second he set eyes on Geralt. Chairs and tables scraped along the tavern floor as patrons jumped out of the way, trying to avoid the Witcher fight they thought was coming. “What's wrong?” Eskel asked.

Geralt jerked his head to the door. “Outside. We'll talk on the road.”

After less than a mile, Geralt laid out the whole story. Eskel shook his head. “What kind of idiot puts a contract on a man protected by Witchers? That's a kind of stupid I didn't believe existed. Are we sure this isn't a trap?”

“It's probably a trap.” Geralt saw that right off—the contract named him, Geralt of Rivia, but only mentioned Jaskier's profession. How could a man hate Jaskier enough to want him dead, but he wasn't interested in learning his name? A son with a ruined face was a small price to pay against a ruined reputation, he created the fiction that the Witcher swindled him and now he had to take his revenge for the imagined slight.

“And how do we avoid said trap?” Eskel regretted the question straight away, as a feral little light entered Geralt's eyes. “You learned that look from Lambert.” Eskel sighed and shook his head. “What are we doing?”

“They'll probably meet us with whatever army they can muster. We can muster one as well.”

“We can?”

“Yes, we can,” Geralt said. “You wouldn't happen to know where Coën spends his early spring?”

Eskel caught Geralt's idea and laughed, still shaking his head at the sheer balls on the White Wolf. “Why yes, I do.”

“Good. And I know where to find the School of the Cat. Shouldn't take more than a week.”

They found Coën two days' ride away, hunting a basilisk. Griffins were the only Witchers who hunted dragons, but with dragons nearly extinct, they specialized in draconids. His normally calm face twisted with anger when he heard news of the contract on Jaskier's life. “A Lord without honor doesn't deserve his lands or titles,” he hissed.

“None of them deserve their lands or titles,” Geralt said. “This one especially.”

“I'll dispatch the basilisk and we ride out,” Coën said. Geralt and Eskel helped him with the basilisk, he didn't need help, School of the Griffin trained their Witchers well, but it went quicker with many hands. Coin in hand, they rode towards the caravan's usual route.

Coën was wary of the Cats as well, but when he heard of their loyalty to Jaskier, he smiled. “Maybe they have some morals after all.”

By the time they caught up with the caravan, Aiden had joined them again. He was less closed off than the other Cats and easiest to reason with... if one could reason with the School of the Cat at all. “Yes, I heard of the contract,” he said. “I spread word to everyone I found: Jaskier is not to be harmed. What's your plan?”

Geralt turned and eyed the six wagons, several Witchers on horseback and at least two to each wagon. “Numbers,” he said.

Mirthe wasn't far from the Cat's usual route. Lord Thomas Lethew had a large parcel of land outside Vizima, surrounded by small, impoverished villages. Geralt despised a Lord who didn't take care of his people. Poor country Lords sometimes didn't have the money or support from their monarchs, but that was not the case with Lethew. Great fields of tobacco and hemp surrounded his estate—cash crops, no food, which forced his citizens to barter and trade for what they needed, then starve when they couldn't find it.

After a contract, Geralt usually put the distasteful details out of his mind, as long as he got paid, he didn't have any business telling a Lord how to live. But as they approached Lethew's estate once again, Geralt let every detail sink into his memory: the pale, hungry faces of his people toiling in the fields, the worn out tools, some forced to tend with their hands, carry sacks on their back instead of in a wheelbarrow.

“Aiden,” Geralt whispered. The other Witcher pulled up his horse beside Roach, the rest of the caravan rumbling behind them. “No matter how things go today, I don't think I'll mind you killing this Lord. Might teach him a lesson.”

Aiden smirked, fire burning in his eyes, hotter and more intense than Geralt or Eskel's measured emotions. That was the dangerous thing about the School of the Cat, they said they used their emotions to help them fight, but that was only half the story. During hectic battles, they entered into a blood frenzy, where the need to cut down every enemy in front of them overwhelmed their senses, causing them to lash out at friend and foe alike.

Two guards flanked the open gates, directing horses and carts and foot traffic. So focused on their duties, they didn't realize the next caravan was filled with Witchers until it was too late. The lead guard turned to them, his eyes on a sheaf of papers in his hand. “What's your business and with who? How long will you be staying?”

“Our business is with Lord Lethew,” Coën said. “We are here to teach him a lesson about honor.”

The guard finally looked up and the color drained from the face. The papers shook in his hand. “You, you're—fuck, you're—”

“Witchers, yes,” Geralt said. “And I have urgent business with the Lord.” Signaling to Aiden with his eyes, all six of the Cat caravans dispersed, moving to find and block any entrances through the city walls. A small-ish settlement like this would have a few, one main gate for regular traffic, one or two others for larger, bulkier parties, and a secret gate for the Lord to sneak whores in and out. School of the Cat were especially skilled at finding such secrets.

Geralt, Eskel, Aiden and Coën pushed forward, sparing the guards no mind. Geralt glanced at Coën, making sure the proud, honorable Witcher wasn't having second thoughts. Eyes forward on their target, Coën lifted a hand to his heart, rubbing his thumb over the area before setting his jaw, no doubt the patch containing Jaskier and Lambert's hair lingered over his heart... Convinced of Coën's resolve, they pressed on.

Peasants and merchants stopped to gawk at them, some running towards the gates. “It's blocked!” One shouted. “They're here to kill us all!”

“Flee, fine folk!” Aiden shouted in response. “You are free to go! Your Lord is not!” People started rushing towards the gates, not quite a stampede, but there was no order to it. Merchants dropped their wears as they went, farmers held tight to only half their trade goods. Geralt checked over his shoulder and saw the caravan letting people through the gates... except the soldiers. A few cowardly soldiers ran deeper into the town, then turned sharply towards the walls. Ah, the secret gate. With the caravan still searching out gates to block, the guards would lead them right to it.

The streets were deserted by the time they reached the Lord's modest castle. It was fitting for an area this size, but with Lord Lethew's displayed arrogance, Geralt half expected a far too grand castle the surrounding fields could barely support. “Aiden,” Geralt said again. “We talk first. Hold your blood lust in check.”

“Hmm.” Aiden considered for a moment. “Fine. But when your words fail...” He didn't need to elaborate.

Catching sight of a few guards here or there, their weapons raised as they retreated slowly, Geralt didn't feel safe leaving Roach outside the castle. He dismounted, the others following his lead, and they all walked through the large front doors, heavy boots and hooves clattering on the stone, announcing their presence to the whole castle.

They didn't have to search for the Lord. The large meeting room doors swung open and a phalanx of guards appeared, Lord Lethew and his unfortunate son standing safely behind them. “How dare you!” the Lord spat. “Witcher filth raiding my castle! Leave at once and I won't have my guard slaughter you all.”

Geralt took a moment to appraise said guards. Half starved country boys, most of them, shaking a little as they stood, trying to follow their orders in the face of more Witchers than they knew existed. One or two held an actual malevolence, probably mercenaries hired for real duties, not just show. If Lord Lethew really wanted Jaskier dead, any one of his mercenaries would've gone after him in a heart beat, but no, he had to search out a Witcher for the contract, ensuring Geralt heard of it and came to investigate.

“You are free to go,” Geralt told the soldiers. “Lay down your weapons and you can leave the gates, go back to your families. Lord Lethew and his son stay, our business is with them.”

“Business!” Lethew spat. “There's no such thing as honorable business with a Witcher! You come and plunder and swindle—that is all you know.”

“Strange, I would have said the same thing about you,” Coën said.

Geralt looked upon the face of Atticus Lethew, the one Jaskier had so _grievously_ attacked. Aside from the one missing tooth, and the red scar cutting through is cheek, there was nothing wrong with the boy. “Some Lords might pay for their sons to have such disfigurements—it's proof of bravery while keeping their handsome looks. Perhaps you should thank Jaskier rather than call a contract on his life?”

“Jaskier?” Lethew spat.

“The bard, the one whose head you desire a Witcher to collect,” Geralt said. “Yet, I suspect you don't really care about Jaskier's head. You wanted me here, your grievance is with me. Well,” Geralt gave a little half bow, keeping his eyes on the mercenaries mixed in with the guard, “here I am.” Lethew twitched, looking from Eskel, to Coën, to Aiden. “What? You thought I'd come alone?” Geralt chuckled. “You would've done better to ask for my death—threaten one Witcher, you get one Witcher. Threaten the Witchers' bard, get every Witcher.”

“The caravan outside will stay as long as necessary,” Aiden said. “We will blockade your keep, ensuring no one but you and your men starve. I don't see your citizens braving a siege of Witchers to rescue their neglectful Lord.”

“Is your son's wounded pride really worth death? Is yours?” Geralt stared them down, trusting the others to keep an eye on the guards. They sat on a powder keg at the moment, if the Lord backed down, they'd leave in peace with only a few hushed rumors following, but if one of the guards snapped... bloody rumors did not fade as quickly, the Butcher of Blaviken could attest to that.

Lethew's lip twitched for a moment, hands clenching into fists. “What would you have me do?” he hissed.

“Cancel the contract and we leave this very moment, never darken your door again.” Geralt took a step towards the line of guards and they retreated back a few paces, tightening their ranks but giving the Witchers too much space. Sloppy. “If you lie, if any man comes after the bard—ever again—you will not only find me at your door, but my sword at your throat. Do we have an understanding?”

Geralt heard the pounding of Lethew's heart, his son's too. They thought their paltry showing of fifteen guards (only two real trained killers among them) would be enough to best a Witcher. Geralt half expected to meet a man filled with rage, a Lord who'd sacrifice any number of lives to claim his vengeance. The sad, insecure man in front of him couldn't intimidate a fly. And as Geralt stared him down...

“I'll cancel the contract.”

… he folded.

“I'll cancel it, no one will come after you, not from me. Just... leave.” The Lord slumped back against the wall, his shakes overcoming his bravado.

His son had enough foolish backbone to push back. “Father! We cannot let them get away with this!”

“Let them?” Lethew shouted back. “We are surrounded, Atticus! Your face is not worth this!”

“Listen to your father, boy, learn a good lesson,” Geralt said.

Atticus shook his head. “Now that fucking bard is going to sing of our shame! Our reputation will plummet! He needs to be silenced! The Witcher too!”

“No, he won't,” Eskel said. “Jaskier only sings of worthy adventures.”

Atticus Lethew continued to shake with rage, but stepped back with his father, drawing the guards in closer. “Be gone,” the Lord said. “I'll void the contract.”

The two mercenaries twitched a little, but retreated with the others. All the same, the Witchers backed out, through the doors, the courtyard, and out onto the street. When no one followed, only then did they mount their horses and make their way out of town. Aiden gave the signal for the caravan to disperse and they rode in silence until Lethew's keep disappeared over the horizon.

The crush inside Geralt's chest—the vice that settled around his heart the moment he left Jaskier in Lambert's arms—finally released. Riding next to him, Eskel reached over and brushed his shoulder. They didn't need to speak, their shared relief deeper than words.

Slowly, the started separating. Aiden left first, turning to rendezvous with the rest of the caravan. Coën headed west, continuing on his normal route. Geralt and Eskel went on together, riding hard to reach Kaer Morhen. It felt strange, returning so soon after winter, but the promise of Jaskier waiting, probably sick with worry, spurred them on.

As they made camp that night and curled around the fire, both noticed the bard-shaped hole between them.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lambert covered him completely, blanketed over Jaskier until he was covered in Witcher, the solid weight calming his mind. Lambert cupped the back of his neck, gently playing with his hair, stroking, comforting. Jaskier almost smiled at that. “Clearly, you've paid attention.”
> 
> “Shush,” Lambert whispered. “You don't have to worry anymore. I'm here. It'll be fine...”
> 
> Lambert's warm weight counterbalanced the pressure in Jaskier's chest and he could finally breathe again. His eyes closed again and he slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember guys, we all know that they're fine, the mild peril is over. But Jaskier doesn't know that. Small warning, there is a big chunk of Jaskier's depression in this chapter, I didn't tag for it because this is the only part it shows up in and I didn't want people to think the whole fic had that running through it. I might tag for it later if it seems helpful. This whole fic is like a study in intense emotional states and sometimes that means the not fun emotions. But remember, everything is fine.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who read this series. All the lovely comments have really helped me get through the truly shitty state of the world. I post at night because I am a night person, but also because I tend to get more depressed at night, and knowing I will wake up to a whole bunch of new people enjoying my story makes me feel a little better, so thank you from the bottom of my heart. Please enjoy the end of this saga <3

Journeying up the mountain in spring with Lambert was a novel experience. The snows were still there but not nearly as driving or biting; a path that saved them a whole day opened up, still slushy and muddy but otherwise clear. And then there was Lambert himself, always gregarious and witty, he told Jaskier jokes as they climbed, and stupid stories where he ended up in some unfortunate, yet sexy, situation. It was a shame Jaskier couldn't enjoy the climb, not with Geralt and Eskel weighing heavily on his mind. If they died because of him...

At night, Lambert held him close, just like Geralt did. “They're fine, smarter than any Lord. Threatening you will be the last thing that idiot ever does.”

They reached Kaer Morhen and Vesemir met them in the front hall. “What's wrong? I was headed down to get supplies when I saw you coming back up. Are the passes still blocked?” Vesemir looked them over, the way Jaskier gripped tight to Lambert, his eyes red and puffy, face sallow. “What happened?” Vesemir growled.

Fresh tears welled in Jaskier's eyes and Lambert ran a hand through his hair, trying to calm him the only way he knew how. “I'll fill you in later, he needs to rest.” Lambert brought him up to Geralt's room, stripping his clothes and folding him into the bed. He leaned over and kissed him softly, pressing their foreheads together. “I'll be back up with some food.”

Jaskier tried to return the kiss, tried to hold on to Lambert and show his gratitude—he wouldn't have made it back by himself, he would've followed Geralt and gotten them all killed. He knew the youngest Witcher hated sitting out a battle like this, but he'd do it for Jaskier, all of them would do anything for Jaskier and now it might get them killed.

Lambert let him kiss and touch until the reason behind it became obvious. “I'm just going down to the dining hall. There are no assassins lying in wait for me here.” When Jaskier's hands didn't let go, Lambert gently pried his fingers open. “I'll be back with food. Try to rest.”

Jaskier barely slept a wink the whole trip up the mountain. Every time he closed his eyes, his too active mind supplied pictures of Geralt and Eskel, hurt, beaten, destroyed, by the army surely waiting for them. Not even Lambert's strong, steady heart could silence his mind. But here, back in their winter bed, Geralt's smell swirling around him, Jaskier's eyes grew heavy and he finally slept.

~

The spring light pouring through the windows was strange. Too bright and sharp, not muted and filtered through clouds like it was in winter. It added to Jaskier's creeping sense of _not right_. As did the empty chair next to the bed. Lambert must have pulled it up in the night, why didn't he just climb into bed? They'd shared a bed countless times.

A scrap of paper sat in the middle of the chair and Jaskier read it. _Gone hunting,_ Lambert's writing, _Vesemir is downstairs. I'll be back soon -L_

Jaskier clutched the note to his chest. Now Lambert was gone as well. What if something got him? They were always heading out in the winter to clear the usual pests that settled around Kaer Morhen—nets of griffins on the high peaks, endrega hatcheries in the caves, harpies looking for new nesting grounds—but never alone in winter. Why take the risk when back up was so close at hand? But Vesemir had to stay to watch him, sending Lambert out by himself. Lambert came back to the keep because Kaer Morhen was safe, if Jaskier's stupid breakdown got him hurt too...

Panic surged through him, wrapping around his neck like an icy hand. Each breath was harder to draw, yet he needed more, there wasn't enough air—

The bedroom door burst open and Lambert ran in, eyes quickly searching for danger before throwing himself across Jaskier. Fresh from the hunt, there was sweat and dirt smeared all over him, not to mention his armor poking uncomfortably. Jaskier wrapped his arms around and pulled Lambert in tighter. Leather and metal studs jabbed into his skin. He didn't care.

Lambert ran his nose up Jaskier's neck and through his hair, the smell of fear slowly receding. “I just got back. The whole castle stinks of fear. What happened?”

“You were gone,” Jaskier said, breath evening out, still a little too fast. “I thought, I didn't want—you might get hurt by yourself.”

Lambert sighed and adjusted, freeing one hand to take off his swords. They clattered to the floor and Jaskier started at the sound. “Be calm, little lark, be calm.” The irony was not lost on Lambert—he had the shortest fuse of all his brothers, quickest to attack when slighted—and here he had to calm the bard down. He rubbed a hand up and down Jaskier's back, a soothing motion Jaskier had used on him before. The panic and fear pouring off Jaskier started to dim, so Lambert was on the right track.

When his breathing returned to normal, Lambert pulled away just long enough to take off his armor. Jaskier's hands grabbed to him as soon as he was back in reach, Lambert climbed into the bed with him and cradled the back of Jaskier's head, threading his fingers through his hair. “I was waiting for you to wake up, but we need supplies. Vesemir sent me hunting. You've been asleep for almost two days.”

“Two days...” Jaskier's lips brushed Lambert's collarbone with each word. He closed his eyes and counted. “He's been gone for five days?” Three days up the mountain, two days fucking sleeping.

“Just about. Don't worry,” Lambert said quickly, smelling a small hint of fear swirling into the air again, “Eskel didn't get far. They're riding together now. Probably already on their way back.”

“Don't lie to me, Lambert, I can't take it right now.”

Jaskier's voice was so... small. Weak and brittle. There were no tears now, Lambert almost preferred the tears, at least crying showed strong emotion. Jaskier was anything but weak and brittle, as soft as he was, he never broke, merely bent around and accommodated whatever changes came his way. And after hearing his beautiful voice echoing off the high rafters of the dining hall... Lambert had trouble squaring that unrepentantly loud Jaskier with the small, quiet man in his arms.

“What do you need from me?” It was part of Jaskier's usual speech, in the hot spring, when he touched them, he always asked _what do you need from me? what can I do for you?_ Now it was Lambert's turn to make sure Jaskier got everything he needed.

“Stay with me?” Jaskier asked. “Go, put away your game, then come back to me... please, I can't be alone right now.”

“Done.” Lambert kissed Jaskier's temple and got up, making sure the blankets didn't shift and Jaskier was perfectly snug. “There's not much to do, Vesemir takes care of most of it, won't be long.”

Jaskier kept his eyes on the door until Lambert returned. He must've stopped in his room to scrub the dirt from his face and neck, he looked a little cleaner than when he left. His clothes fell to the floor and he was in Jaskier's arms. He tried to shift around to spoon up behind, but Jaskier shook his head. “No, like this.” Lambert covered him completely, blanketed over Jaskier until he was covered in Witcher, the solid weight calming his mind.

Lambert cupped the back of his neck, gently playing with his hair, stroking, comforting. Jaskier almost smiled at that. “Clearly, you've paid attention.”

“Shush,” Lambert whispered. “You don't have to worry anymore. I'm here. It'll be fine...”

Lambert's warm weight counterbalanced the pressure in Jaskier's chest and he could finally breathe again. His eyes closed again and he slept.

~

The smell of roast venison tickled Jaskier's nose, pulling him from a dark, dreamless sleep. Lambert was still on top of him, still stroking his hair. “How long did I sleep?” he mumbled into the patch of skin nearest his lips.

“Only two hours. We should eat. Do you think you can get up?”

Jaskier tested his legs and found a little stiffness. It made sense, if he'd been asleep for so long... Lambert helped him to his feet and handed him his clothes. Jaskier ignored his own things and searched around the room for what he wanted—one of Eskel's undershirts and Geralt's tunic. He slipped both on and stepped into his breeches and boots. With their wide shoulders and bulging muscles, Jaskier swam through the fabric, but the smells of his Witchers close to his skin calmed more of the anxiety that refused to leave his chest. He latched to Lambert's side once again and they headed down to dinner.

Vesemir eyed them when they entered the dining hall and shook his head. He didn't say anything, just served the deer Lambert killed today. He said nothing when Jaskier sat in Lambert's lap rather than on the bench. He said nothing when he noticed the smell of panic and fear still curling around Jaskier like stale smoke.

Finally, the silence became too much. Vesemir set his knife down and looked squarely at Jaskier, forcing those too blue eyes to lock on him. “Do you trust them so little?” he asked, voice calm, his ancient knowledge bleeding through every word.

“No. I don't trust the men of the world.” Lambert's arm tightened around Jaskier's hips at the most witcherly thing he'd ever heard from the bard.

“Hmm, good instincts. Still, you do them a disservice. From what I know of my sons, no power in this world will keep them from you, no king, no emperor, and especially no puny fucking lord.” Vesemir started eating again, his eyes still on Jaskier. “Trust in them more than you doubt the world.”

After dinner, Lambert took Jaskier down to the spring. He undressed Jaskier like a doll and pulled him into the water, letting the healing minerals soothe away whatever mental anguish tore at the man. Jaskier himself was fond of saying, “There is no problem a hot bath can't solve.”

They didn't make love, just soaked in the water, Jaskier staring into Lambert's eyes, curled around him. Lambert took advantage of Jaskier's silence to treat him for once, washing his hair and rubbing his back, paying forward the close attention Jaskier usually visited on them. When they headed up to bed, Jaskier pulled Lambert over him again. Every thought crackled over his frayed nerves, whispering evil little ideas about mobs overwhelming Geralt and Eskel. Lambert's solid weight pinned him down and he managed to sleep again.

The next days were... less bad. While Lambert and Vesemir attended to their chores, Jaskier floated around the castle like so many ghosts before him. He found a stack of clean paper in the library and started writing: every ballad he'd ever sang that mentioned Geralt; all the poems he composed during winter but could never share anywhere else; a few new poems he had to write to get the words out of his head... on and on, filling page after page with words praising his wolves and the other Witchers he'd met. He even wrote a poem about Letho and his stupid empty eyes.

He abandoned the papers as soon as he finished, leaving a trail of sheets behind him wherever he went. They were always gone the next morning, so clearly someone was picking up after him. A stab of guilt joined the panic now living inside of him, Jaskier was just creating more inconvenience for Vesemir and Lambert, over staying his welcome. And he couldn't imagine how much coin he cost them all, nearly the first half of spring gone, all to protect Jaskier's worthless neck...

Lambert took him down to the hot spring every night to touch him, force him to relax and stop thinking for two fucking minutes. It helped. Scarred and calloused fingers running down his neck, lips soon to follow. Lambert never pushed, not even when Jaskier felt the hard cock against his thigh while Jaskier's fear left him flaccid. The touches were enough, more than enough to keep him grounded.

After a few days, Jaskier decided to make himself useful. He and Vesemir started indexing the library two winters ago, no sense not to work on it while he was otherwise doing nothing but taking up space and eating Vesemir's food. Jaskier threw himself into the task. Most of the sections were clearly organized—potions here, bestiaries there, alchemy and botany between—but the brass plaques marking the sections had long faded, the letters worn away. Jaskier slid slips of paper behind the worn brass, marking them for Vesemir to replace later in the year when he had time. He found a few misshelved books and returned them to their sections, then cleared the reading tables of any tome left out or forgotten.

He started checking the upper shelves for pests (book mites, moths, anything that might degrade the collection) when the scrape of the front doors almost sent him tumbling from the ladder. Lambert was inside, searching the upper rafters of the dining hall for leaks before the summer storms came. He trained with the School of the Cat and, like a show off idiot, could climb and jump up there without a ladder. Vesemir always made him do leak checks and Lambert always complained, but Jaskier knew he loved it.

And Vesemir, well, Vesemir was asleep. In the library. Not ten feet away from Jaskier. So who opened the front door?

“Jaskier!” Geralt shouted.

“Oh, thank fuck.” Jaskier slid down the ladder and jumped the last few rungs, shooting past Vesemir as the old wolf started to stir. “Geralt!” Jaskier shouted back. “Geralt!”

He rounded the corner and there they were, Geralt and Eskel, alive and well and fucking glowing. Light poured in from the front doors, bathing them in the soft spring sun, Geralt's white hair a halo around him, Eskel's deep red scars filled with light, like power bursting from inside his body, his skin unable to contain it any longer.

Jaskier sprinted across the flagstones, throwing himself against Geralt. Sharp buckles and studded leather bit into his skin, he didn't care, Geralt and Eskel were back, he could hold them, touch them. The final pinch of worry in his chest released and Jaskier inhaled a full breath for the first time in almost two weeks.

The other wolves emerged from their various corners of Kaer Morhen, talking softly with each other, “What happened?” “Did you kill him?” “Is the contract still on?” Jaskier barely heard their words, he was too busy feeling the mountain of muscle that was Geralt, counting the beats of his heart to assure himself it was real. Eskel brushed up next to them and Jaskier snared him by his sword belt, pulling him in close. A hand so similar to Geralt's carded through his hair and Jaskier's eyes fluttered closed. A third hand touched between his shoulder blades—Lambert—and Jaskier's heart was complete once again.

“Do you need food? Rest?” Vesemir asked.

“Food, yes,” Geralt said. He lifted Jaskier a little more securely in his arms, the bard's feet trailing on the floor as they walked down to the dining hall. He pressed his nose into Jaskier's neck and smelled mostly joy, contentment, all good things... but the small undercurrent of fear remained. “We're fine,” he said. “It's finished.”

“Good.” Jaskier nuzzled under Geralt's ear, smelling the earthy, masculine musk of sweat and dirt.

There were things to do now—they had to fill Vesemir in on what happened with the Lord, they definitely needed more supplies if Geralt and Eskel were to rest a few days before heading down the mountain—Jaskier didn't pay attention to any of it. All he knew was Geralt and Eskel were in his arms again and he didn't care. The four Witchers talked around him, Jaskier mostly asleep in Geralt's arms. His sleep had been deep but filled with nightmares for weeks and with Geralt and Eskel safe, Jaskier's mind finally calmed, letting him rest...

He woke up in the dark bedroom and panic filled his chest. “Jaskier, calm down,” Geralt's gravely voice muttered.

Jaskier felt a familiar body at his back and turned, tying himself up in the sheets in his attempts to get his arms around Geralt. “Where are the others?” Rational thought slowly took place in his brain. Nothing happened with the Lord, they were in no danger, from what little he remembered of their conversation with Vesemir, the whole thing was a lot of nothing, there was no real threat. Now Jaskier just had to convince his overactive imagination of that fact.

Geralt's hand rubbed up and down his back, soothing away Jaskier's terror. “Lambert left with Vesemir to get supplies, Eskel's down making breakfast. I was going to let you sleep longer. Do you want to get up now?”

Weak light started rising through the windows and Jaskier nodded. “Yes, I'm starving.”

“Mmm, I thought so. Lambert said you haven't been eating. Or sleeping well.” Geralt pulled back until Jaskier's eyes met his, the gold shining bright in the still dark room. “You can't do that again, you can't neglect yourself because you're worried about us. I will be in danger again, so will you. We can't let that bring us down.”

“I was worried for you,” Jaskier whispered. “I didn't want you to get hurt.”

“And I didn't get hurt. Here I am.”

“Here you are.”

Closing his eyes, Geralt rested their foreheads together, cupping his hand behind Jaskier's neck to hold them together, sharing their breath. The last tendrils of the clawing fear and doubt slithered out of Jaskier's heart. Geralt was safe, in their winter bed, in Jaskier's arms. _They_ were safe.

~

Jaskier took up any chore that needed doing, as an apology of sorts to Vesemir for occupying his keep longer than necessary. Geralt and Eskel still needed another day of rest before they took the mountain again and Jaskier picked up whatever slack he found.

After sweeping the dining hall, clearing out the store rooms, and organizing the library index project, Vesemir pushed him away. “That's enough boy, you've helped enough.” The old Witcher shook his head and retreated to his room for some solitude, grumbling under his breath, “The apology is more annoying than the sobbing...”

Jaskier went back to the library, where his three Witchers were resting after their treks down the mountain, up the mountain, and across the Continent. Geralt opened his arms and Jaskier fell onto his chest, ear pressing to hear that heart beat. “Did I see Vesemir go to his room?”

Jaskier sighed. “Yes, I think I'm becoming annoying...”

“Becoming?” Lambert snorted. Eskel kicked him from his spot on the floor. “What? He's not depressed anymore. We can tease him again.”

Geralt ignored his brothers and opened Jaskier's shirt, sniffing at the thick scents built up from the day's work. “Do you remember what you promised me?” Geralt asked, fingers swirling in Jaskier's chest hair. “I said I wanted a bath when we returned.” He dragged his hand out of Jaskier's shirt and up over his cheek, around the back of his head, running through his hair.

Jaskier lifted his head, half pushing into Geralt's hand. “I remember. I took your soap down to the hot spring so it was ready when you came back. Do you want to—”

“Yes. I want.” Geralt lifted them from the couch and pushed Jaskier towards the library door. He nudged Eskel with his foot as he went by, Jaskier grabbing Lambert from the chair he sprawled into.

They all walked the very familiar path to the spring together, touching, lightly nudging as they went. Jaskier didn't know when it became a race, only that Eskel and Lambert turned a corner and started running. Geralt wrapped an arm around Jaskier's hips and threw him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, running to catch up.

Lambert got to the hot spring first, opening the door and turning to catch Eskel as he ran in behind. Geralt dropped Jaskier into the middle of it all and they became a tangle of arms, tugging, kissing, undressing, trying to do everything at once and failing at it all. Eskel had his tunic and boots off, and his breeches open, Lambert had one boot off and Geralt tugged at the collar of his jerkin, the other hand on Jaskier's breeches.

The chaos of it all, the utter absurdity of these strong men scrambling around like toddlers who didn't know how to tie their shoes. Jaskier threw his head back and laughed, the sound of his mirth bouncing off the cave walls. The light airy sound brought the scuffle for nudity to a stop, a large smile splitting Lambert's face. “That's the first you've laughed in weeks!”

“Well, you're all ridiculous right now.” Jaskier laughed until his face was red and a twinge in his side made it hard to breathe. “Alright, alright, let me.” He took a breath to gather himself before addressing the mess in front of him.

Eskel was the closest to being naked already. Jaskier pushed the breeches down his hips and urged him to step out of them, throwing the clothing in the laundry basket. Lambert managed to rip the shoulder of his undershirt, Jaskier could mend it tonight after dinner; he wouldn't dream of sending any of them down the mountain in rags.

When they were all wonderfully bare in front of him, Jaskier stripped on his own clothes. Geralt reached for him and Jaskier let himself be folded in those arms once again. Their lips met, and Jaskier opened his mouth, letting Geralt devour him. The White Wolf could take his soul if he wanted, it already belonged to him.

Jaskier heard the gentle swish of water and when he pulled away, the wash basin was filled. Lambert threw the bucked across the cave and sank into the spring. “Don't expect me to do that again. Just because I like watching you work...”

“Oh, don't be difficult about it.” Eskel set his bucket down and slid in the water next to Lambert, crowding the youngest Witcher into the corner. They were far enough to give Geralt and Jaskier privacy, but close enough if they were needed... Jaskier would get to them all today, one last loving night before the parted again, but he owed Geralt a bath.

Geralt stepped into the large rinse tub and settled back, eyes tracing Jaskier as he plucked the bar of pine and cedar soap from his work area. With the rest of his belongings cleared away, it sat there alone these weeks, waiting, a promise of Geralt's return. Dipping a cloth into the water, Jaskier worked up a lather, the woodsy smell filling the cave. Geralt wet his hair while he waited, droplets of water rolling down his chest like some radiant water god emerging from the sea.

The second the soapy cloth touched his skin, Geralt let out a deep, satisfied groan. Jaskier's hand swept across his chest, down his arms—outlining each glowing muscle in lather—and around to the back of his neck. Geralt followed Jaskier with his eyes, his relaxed gaze tracing over soft arms and a lightly muscled chest. Jaskier wasn't a weak man, his muscles merely lacked the definition the Witchers had, making him look soft and creamy by comparison, perfect for resting one's tired head in the crook of his shoulder, no worry of hard bone or muscle poking one in the eye. Geralt thought about Jaskier's smooth skin almost as much as he thought about his smell, lavender and salt and musk all mixed with subtle licks of his ingredients; chamomile oil spilled on his fingers, orange peel trapped under his nails, pollen in his hair.

Jaskier urged him forward to wash his back and Geralt took the opportunity to snatch a kiss, exploring the softest bit of Jaskier's already soft skin. He pulled back and Jaskier shivered. “Don't distract me,” he chided. Geralt peered over his shoulder and watched Jaskier work, the swipes of the cloth over his skin sparking that tingling fire that traveled up his spine, filling his mind with peaceful fuzz. He let his eyes fall closed, extending his other senses to feel and smell Jaskier moving around him.

Once Jaskier rinsed the soap from Geralt's skin, he returned with more lather and threaded his fingers through white hair, scrubbing and scratching lightly. Geralt leaned his head back and purred at the tingling sensation. His body relaxed, arms going slack in the tub as Jaskier finished his promised bath.

All the soap rinsed from his skin and hair, Geralt climbed out of the tub. Jaskier didn't offer him a bath sheet, they were about to jump in the hot spring, but there was one more thing to take care of. “Thank you for fulfilling your promise,” Geralt said. “Now, let me fulfill mine.”

Sinking to his knees in front of Jaskier, Geralt bowed his head. “I swore to myself, after all this was over, I'd apologize for jumping to conclusions about Letho.” He lifted his head, staring into Jaskier's now teary eyes. “Can you forgive me, Jaskier? You are the most loyal of friends, of lovers, I shouldn't have doubted you. You are so much more than any Witcher can ask from this life. I will never doubt your love again.”

A happy sob bubbled from Jaskier's chest. “Of course I forgive you.” He fell to his knees and threw his arms around Geralt. “Of course.”

Geralt sat back and gathered Jaskier into his lap, letting the man hug and hold to his heart's content. Wave after wave of happiness, warm like sunshine, rolled off Jaskier and Geralt breathed him in deep, letting the smell fill his lungs until it would stay with him for days.

Geralt expected them to get in the water next, join the others, but when Jaskier pulled back, he crawled over to the hamper filled with their dirty clothes. Removing his breeches, he fished in the pockets for a vial of oil, then crawled back over to Geralt. “Please,” he whispered, frantic fingers slipping on the glass vial. “I need—can we?”

“Yes.” Geralt kissed him and tool the oil from shaking fingers. “Where?”

“Here.” Jaskier lay on his back next to the edge of the spring. In the opposite corner, Eskel and Lambert swam over, trailing fingers and kisses across Jaskier, now so close.

Geralt pushed Jaskier's legs apart and spent a moment having a good feel—sliding his hands up milky thighs, through the thick hair on his belly and chest, brushing over his nipples. Once he'd touched his fill, he opened the bottle of oil, slicking two fingers.

Jaskier threw his head back when they pressed in. “Yes...” he hissed. Sixteen days. Sixteen days since he last touched Geralt. Sixteen days since he'd felt a single spark of desire. Lambert's heavy body on top of his was comfort, plain and simple, with his mind tearing itself apart with worry, he needed the solid weight of one of his Witchers to keep him from going insane. His lust returned the second he had Geralt safe in his arms and now Jaskier had sixteen days to make up for. He wanted them all tonight, however they'd have him, Jaskier wanted to feel them on his skin as they made their way down the mountain tomorrow. But, as always, he wanted Geralt first.

The scent of the chamomile oil perfumed the misty air of the hot spring. Geralt spread another dollop over his cock with an impatient hand. He wasn't as... accustomed to the intense attention of an audience as Jaskier, but with Eskel and Lambert so near, devouring the scene with their eyes, the fire in his belly burned hotter. If he wasn't inside Jaskier in the next few seconds, he might burn up.

One hand on Jaskier's hip, he held the other behind the head of his cock, lining himself up with Jaskier's hole and thrusting slowly forward. Sinking into that tight heat was just as amazing the thousandth time as the first and Geralt couldn't help the heavy sigh that came from deep in his chest. He fought the urge to close his eyes and lose himself in Jaskier's body, watching instead, watching himself slowly sink in, unable to look away from the place where they joined.

Jaskier tipped his hips up and Geralt slid in all the way, gasping a little at the suddenness of it all. “Too much for you?” Jaskier laughed softly and wrapped his legs around Geralt's hips.

Geralt smiled. “Always. You were always too much for me. I do my best to manage, but you are too bright, too passionate a man. I've never deserved you and you're too stupid to see that, so I guess lucky for me.”

“It started so poetic,” Jaskier said.

Geralt covered Jaskier's body with his own, sliding his arms under Jaskier's shoulders and drawing his hips back. Slow... slow... Geralt's thrusts were almost glacial, letting Jaskier feel every inch of him. He dropped his head onto Jaskier's shoulder and strong fingers tangled in his hair. “Yes,” Jaskier panted. “Let me _feel_ you.”

Despite the slow pace, Geralt felt himself teetering on the edge all too soon. With Jaskier's smell around him, his body, his beautiful voice, it was too much. His hips sped up and Jaskier squeezed him with his legs. “Yes,” he gasped again. “Yes!”

Geralt spilled with a truly shattering moan, he felt it down to his core, all the little pieces of him scattered for a moment before Jaskier's presence pulled him back together, making him whole once again. Geralt always knew—from the moment he first set eyes on the bard—he'd only ever be whole in Jaskier's arms.

~

Vesemir sat in the dining hall drumming his fingers across a wrapped package. Eskel arrived yesterday, and he saw Lambert on the mountain a day behind Geralt and Jaskier. Soon, his keep would be filled with his sons again. At his age, he didn't know how many more winters he had left and he intended to enjoy the ones he had remaining with the family he managed to cobble together.

The front door scraped open and he climbed to his feet, tucking the package under his arm as he headed into the front hall. Hair wind tossed, Geralt nodded to him, Jaskier right behind, smiling bright like always. “You've conquered the mountain again, I see.” Vesemir looked closer, just in case. Jaskier hadn't passed out from fatigue in years, but he knew how delicate humans were. The flush in his cheeks came from the cold, and he smelled fine, no exhaustion clinging to him.

“Yes, I'm happy whenever I don't pass out. It's a low bar, really.”

Vesemir grunted. “Seems like you were just here.”

Jaskier bit his lip, falling in next to Geralt. “Yes, last spring was... odd, to say the least. But, no more threats, so they really did cancel the contract.”

“Good thing too,” Geralt said. “I don't like threatening the same Lord twice. Gets boring after the first time.”

They picked up their things to head to Geralt's room. Vesemir cleared his throat. “Take this with you.” He held out the package to Jaskier.

Jaskier took it and unwrapped the brown paper to find a leather folio, the papers inside bound together with a blue ribbon. Jaskier flipped through the pages. “These are... my writings. From spring.” The deranged and the sublime all poured out of Jaskier's head when he had no outlet for his grief and panic, the papers that he discarded without thought because he had no rational thought at the time. “You kept them?”

“You left a mess, I cleaned it up,” Vesemir said.

One of those beautiful sunshine smiles spread across Jaskier's face, a few happy tears welling at the corners of his eyes. “Vesemir, thank you, I can't believe...”

“You wrote about Witchers. All works concerning Witchers belong in the library. Do you approve of the title?”

Jaskier flipped to the front of the folio and found the title page. In beautiful calligraphy, the style so old it had to come from Vesemir's hand, Jaskier read:

_**Beloved** _

_Collected Works on Witchers_

_From the hand of Jaskier, the Bard of Kaer Morhen_

Tears spilled down Jaskier's cheeks. His hands shook so much, he almost dropped the beautiful folio. “Vesemir. I—I can't, this is so—”

“If you say thank you, I'll throw it down the mountain.” Jaskier clutched the folio to his chest and Vesemir nodded. Good, he didn't need any of that sappy nonsense... “Dinner in an hour. Go put your things away.”

Geralt wrapped an arm around Jaskier and herded him up the stairs. He kissed his ear and whispered, “You can read it to me later... beloved.”

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lambert the weighted blanket is my favorite thing. I've had so much fun writing this fic and getting to use these characters, I hope everyone else enjoyed it too.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic also shows what happens when I have way too many ideas for a title, but not enough to give every chapter a title. This is the beginning of Part 1 - The Wolves of Winter


End file.
